Dear Readers,
I always enjoy the first snowfall of the season when I take my morning coffee into the living room, pull back the curtains, swivel the easy chair to face the picture window, and settle in to wait for the morning recess bell.
Directly across the street is a large empty field adjacent to Elm Lawn Elementary School. At the far end of the field is a beautiful new state-of-the-art playground equipped with all sorts of swings and bars and bridges, but somehow the kids are pulled away from the playground and drawn to the openness, the vastness, the freedom of the field . . . especially after it snows.
Fifteen minutes of fame
When was the last time you made a snowman? I have wonderful memories of building snowmen over the years with my brothers, my kids, and my grandkids, but the very best memory of snowman-building is the one which earned me my 15 minutes of fame.
It was a Sunday morning in 1974 when I was home from college on winter break. The Saturday night storm had left behind eight inches of perfect packing snow, so my younger brothers and I hurried home from church to sculpt what would turn out to be a most unusual work of art. Michelangelo would have been proud.
We didn’t have a master plan when we began construction, no one had drawn up blueprints, but somehow, as we continued the teamwork of packing on mitten-full after mitten-full of icy slush, the form of a man slowly emerged. He was about six feet tall with a noble chin, furrowed brow, and prominent nose. Mom said he looked a lot like Liberace, but my brothers and I all thought he bore a striking resemblance to Dad’s brother, our Uncle Dick.
It didn’t matter what we thought, however, because one of the neighbors insisted our front yard creation was the spitting image of Nelson Rockefeller, the newly appointed vice president, and even called the local newspaper to tell them so!
The picture of us with our snowman on the front page of the Fort Wayne Journal Gazette was quite flattering to me as I had posed in my Sunday best, but my poor brothers were deep into adolescent awkwardness and still, all these years later, force me to renew my annual pledge to never let that photograph see the light of day — but because of my high standards of journalistic integrity and dedication to truth, duty, and the American way, I feel obligated to share it with you now.
Almost 50 years later
But I digress. Return with me if you will, dear Readers, to this snowy morning almost 50 years later as that 9:20 bell releases a swarm of overstuffed, snow-suited tots from Elm Lawn’s side doors who waddle with as much speed as they can muster toward that beautiful, untouched field of sparkling white. The squeals of laughter and shouts of joy as they scatter to scoop, roll, and pack are heart-warming to hear, but I wish I could also hear what they’re thinking.
Surely by now, halfway through the school year, they must know that morning recess only lasts for fifteen minutes; certainly, they must have some concept of what fifteen minutes feel like so they can allocate their time accordingly. But they don’t. Although some have finished both bottom and middle sections, no one has yet attempted to add the head. I’m tempted to open the front door and yell out to them, “Three-minute warning!”
Alas! When the end-of-recess bell rings, they all scamper back to the same doors from which they escaped, leaving behind what looks like either a battlefield of headless snow soldiers or an art gallery in Florence full of decapitated Davids.
No chance to finish them later as in a matter of minutes, the older kids will take over the field during the second recess fulfilling their genetic destiny to destroy whatever the littler kids had accomplished before them.
Let us consider, dear Readers, is there a life lesson to be learned here? Yes, there is, but it is a lesson for me, not for the students of Elm Lawn, to learn.
First, perfectionists living in an imperfect world are destined for a lifetime of frustration. (Besides, snowmen are not necessarily imperfect simply because they don’t have a head. Who am I to judge?)
Secondly, in our earthly travels, it is the journey itself and not the destination that is important.
Scripture is full of verses warning us not to be concerned with what tomorrow (or the second recess) will bring. Those kids across the street are living in the moment, enjoying the creative process and thinking only of the fun they are having during those particular fifteen minutes. They do not care, cannot care about what will happen to the snowmen in the future. Besides, despite their youth (because of their youth?), they understand no one can really own a snowman — unless of course that snowman happens to look like Nelson Rockefeller, in which case he belongs to the ages!
Linda Kelly is a member of Blessed Sacrament Parish in Madison.