Winter Memories

 Winter Memories

As the temperature drops to long john’s weather, I remember the snow and icy days of angel imprints, sledding down frozen hills, and ice skating. My friend Diana lived across the street from a boy whose dad was a supervisor at Schaake’s Packing Plant in Ellensburg. Our young, adventurous spirits visited the acreage through the changing seasons of the mid-1950s.

Springtime was celebrated on their neighborhood lawns by spreading a truck load of Schaake’s cow manure, with a surprisingly sweet smell. We were told the flowery aroma was produced by cud chewing cattle eating alfalfa. Summer picnic lunches were enjoyed at the packing plant as we sat next to the Yakima River, watching cattle herded through corrals, their calm “moos” floating through the air. Fall meant back to school. Leaf colors magically changed while yard beds, decorated orange, became proud private pumpkin patches. Winter white snowflakes fell, magically announcing a new season. A pond next to the plant, transformed into a frozen gift. Time turns new seasons into a calendar of memories.

The alarm clock rang before sunrise. Out of cozy bed covers, into the morning chill, we dressed winter warm, and hung ice skates over our shoulders as we marched to the packing plant, feeling the friendship of three Musketeers, but, in reality, acting like the three Stooges: “Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk” and “woo-woo-woo!” We stopped along the way to toss snowballs at icicles dangling down tree limbs, creating a musical sound, mimicking summer wind chimes.

Arriving at the plant, we were steered to a back door where there was a small freight elevator with a thick rope suspended to tug on, working our way up to the next floor. We entered a small room to warm up from our walk, found a refrigerator full of packages of hot dogs, and ripped one open with the enthusiasm of starving lost explorers discovering food. Even uncooked, they tasted salty with a smoky flavor so fresh they didn’t need ketchup. After eating, we entered the elevator, hand-over-hand holding the rope, dropping slowly to the main floor. New energy turned into a race to the pond.

Warned by our parents not to fall through thin ice, we cautiously stood by the pond, stepping on the edges, and assuring each other it was frozen solid. Gliding on the pond, listening for the heart-stopping sound of cracking, ready to bounce from thin ice, spinning like a top, and speeding to the shore breathlessly grateful for not falling into trouble. All senses on alert, my heart pounded through my ears like the bass drum in a parade. After bravely testing the frozen rink enough times to feel secure, we spun around in circles, made figure eights, and raced each other with no beginning and no end. A morning filled with blue skies, clouds floating from frozen breath, and the sound of metal blades sliding on a solid cube smooth as glass. Every part of my body felt alive; from under my knit hat to the tip of my skates, I was wrapped in seasonal joy.

After taking off our skates, we walked down to the Yakima River to watch the rushing water fight freezing temperatures. We tossed snowballs at chunky targets, “hitting the bull’s eye” on a bouncy berg. Having cold, numb fingers, I went to the walkway by the fences that corralled cattle when the plant was busy. The pens were a huge maze in the emptiness of winter. Bales of hay scattered against the bottom of the fences, waiting to slow the cattle walk, or providing camouflage for hiding field mice. In the distance, I saw the cattle scale, remembering when we’d jumped on the platform together, not moving the dial even a little bit—it started at five-hundred pounds.

I sat on the fence rail, blowing hot breath on cold fingers. While trying to thaw out, I saw arms waving, unable to hear their shouts at a distance. I jumped off the fence into the pen, a forceful landing broke the top crust. I felt myself sinking in the ground, a slow-motion trap, dropping lower and lower, until stopping knee-deep in frozen cow pies. I couldn’t move. I really couldn’t move. I was stuck in the muck with the power of a plunger pushing a clogged overflowing toilet bowl. Leaning back, grabbing a plank on the fence, a memory helped me recreate movements on the old playground monkey bars. I pulled and pulled, wiggling my feet until freed from their horrible trap.

At the river, I tried to rinse everything off—shoes, socks, and pants. I was so embarrassed, I didn’t feel the cold on icy, stiff clothes. To my surprise, the laughter and teasing from friends made me feel warmer, knowing how silly I must have looked. That is, until I got home. Changing clothes in a rush, I  rolled my pants and socks into a tight ball, hiding them in the bottom of the hamper, hoping they would never be found.

The next day, Mom asked what had happened to my pants. We laughed as I described my leap off the fence. That day I learned you can’t hide dirty laundry, especially after finding yourself knee-deep in cow pies.

April Ryan is a longtime Washington girl and Northwest Prime Time writer and poet.

                         April and Diana

SHARING STORIES is a weekly column for and about the 50 plus crowd living in the Puget Sound region. Send your stories and photos to ariele@comcast.net. Tell local or personal stories; discuss concerns around aging and other issues; share solutions, good luck, and reasons to celebrate; poems are fine too. Pieces may be edited or excerpted. We reserve the right to select among pieces. Photos are always a plus and a one-sentence bio is requested (where you live, maybe age or career, retired status, etc.).SHARING STORIES is featured on www.northwestprimetime.com, the website for Northwest Prime Time, a monthly publication for baby boomers, seniors, retirees, and those contemplating retirement. The newspaper can be found in the greater Seattle area and other Puget Sound locations. For more information, call 206-824-8600 or visit www.northwestprimetime.com. To find other SHARING STORIES articles on this website type "sharing stories" in the search function above.

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