AI
Thursday, December 18, 2003 2:32:55 PM
SECRET SANTA (Lownumba)
A friend wrote this. Thought it would take you back.
It snowed yesterday. But it wasn’t like the snow we get most of the time. It consists of little bits of ice. It’s heavy. It has accumulated to over shoe top depth. And it’s a really miserable breed of snow: a shovel won’t move it; salt won’t melt it; a snowball cannot be made from it; it won’t drift; it doesn’t stick to trees and look pretty; and it makes walking a beast. We have a layer cake of waterlogged slush covered with ice bits and topped with a crispy layer of solid ice.
With every step, once I’ve lifted my full weight, the upper layer of ice cracks and my foot falls through the loose crystals, building sufficient momentum to become firmly mired in the wet slush below. So I triple my effort: one for normal walking; two for acting as an ice-breaker; and three for getting unstuck. I questioned my sanity for venturing out. Fortunately, I discovered that if I avoid where others have walked, virgin snow will hold my weight. I chose my route carefully, and was able to arrive at the store without collapsing in exhaustion. I stopped for a coffee: partly because I wanted to sit, and partly to use a coupon I’ve been carrying for a month, but mostly I wanted to put my feet up. I hurried through my shopping and enjoyed an easy walk home, thanks to my earlier discovery.
Later, I suggested that my husband join me for a walk. I looked forward to being able to walk on top of the ice while he’s breaking through. He declined. I settled in at home and gave the weather no additional thought.
Early this morning, I was awakened by the noise of snow ploughing. Because the snowfall was so unusual, it’s removal caused extraordinary sound. It was the metal blades smashing against ice that created the additional clatter. It took me a moment to realise what was making the noise. The racket was a familiar sound from my childhood.
In the 1950’s, we lived across the road from a dairy where every morning, trucks would deliver milk. It was shipped in metal cans. Today, we see these cans for sale in country antique shops. They’re often painted with scenes of rural life. Farmers now ship bulk milk to the dairy in refrigerated trucks. Progress.
The trucks would stop at the unloading station. Each can would be placed on a platform of rollers, creating noise number one. The cans would travel through a small door where another man would remove the lid with a rubber hammer, making noise number two. Yet another man would tip the can and it would empty into a tub, producing noise number three. The cans and lids would require washing. Again, a man did this work by hand, using a brush and hose. This didn’t make much noise, but when he set the empty can upside down on a metal rack, he compensated for the relative silence of the washing: noise number four. Near the end, the empty cans were put on another roller rack, the lids replaced, and they’d be sent outside again through a second small door. Now outside, they’d roll along this rack, clanking and banging, until they reached the end. With one final loud crash, they’d come to a stop. They’d make no more sound until they were reloaded onto the truck for the return trip to the farm. Loading the truck wasn’t silent.
By noon, the milk delivery would be completed. By evening, the inside work would be finished and the dairy would close for the day.
The rack with rollers became a source of amusement for neighbourhood kids. It ran for a little over a hundred feet with enough decline that we could manage some exciting speeds on it. We’d make a car from a cardboard box and with a good shove, we’d enjoy the ride of a lifetime. At least until near the rack’s end. At the end, there was a steel barricade to stop the milk cans. It sure stopped us too. Hitting it hurt. As we neared the end of the rack, we’d jump. It required great timing: too early would short-change our ride; too late and we’d crash. Typically, we’d ride the rollers until one of two events ended our fun: the cardboard box would disintegrate; or someone would get hurt.
When the snow ploughs awakened me this morning, I was transported back decades. I was living in the old family house. My parents were downstairs making breakfast. (I didn’t finish my homework!) I wanted to ride the rollers one more time. I had forgotten my age. I remembered fun. It’s like there’s a kid inside my body who wants to get out.
At breakfast, I asked my husband if he enjoys riding on roller-coasters. He does. I suggested we visit an amusement park sometime this summer. He agreed. I can’t wait!
A friend wrote this. Thought it would take you back.
It snowed yesterday. But it wasn’t like the snow we get most of the time. It consists of little bits of ice. It’s heavy. It has accumulated to over shoe top depth. And it’s a really miserable breed of snow: a shovel won’t move it; salt won’t melt it; a snowball cannot be made from it; it won’t drift; it doesn’t stick to trees and look pretty; and it makes walking a beast. We have a layer cake of waterlogged slush covered with ice bits and topped with a crispy layer of solid ice.
With every step, once I’ve lifted my full weight, the upper layer of ice cracks and my foot falls through the loose crystals, building sufficient momentum to become firmly mired in the wet slush below. So I triple my effort: one for normal walking; two for acting as an ice-breaker; and three for getting unstuck. I questioned my sanity for venturing out. Fortunately, I discovered that if I avoid where others have walked, virgin snow will hold my weight. I chose my route carefully, and was able to arrive at the store without collapsing in exhaustion. I stopped for a coffee: partly because I wanted to sit, and partly to use a coupon I’ve been carrying for a month, but mostly I wanted to put my feet up. I hurried through my shopping and enjoyed an easy walk home, thanks to my earlier discovery.
Later, I suggested that my husband join me for a walk. I looked forward to being able to walk on top of the ice while he’s breaking through. He declined. I settled in at home and gave the weather no additional thought.
Early this morning, I was awakened by the noise of snow ploughing. Because the snowfall was so unusual, it’s removal caused extraordinary sound. It was the metal blades smashing against ice that created the additional clatter. It took me a moment to realise what was making the noise. The racket was a familiar sound from my childhood.
In the 1950’s, we lived across the road from a dairy where every morning, trucks would deliver milk. It was shipped in metal cans. Today, we see these cans for sale in country antique shops. They’re often painted with scenes of rural life. Farmers now ship bulk milk to the dairy in refrigerated trucks. Progress.
The trucks would stop at the unloading station. Each can would be placed on a platform of rollers, creating noise number one. The cans would travel through a small door where another man would remove the lid with a rubber hammer, making noise number two. Yet another man would tip the can and it would empty into a tub, producing noise number three. The cans and lids would require washing. Again, a man did this work by hand, using a brush and hose. This didn’t make much noise, but when he set the empty can upside down on a metal rack, he compensated for the relative silence of the washing: noise number four. Near the end, the empty cans were put on another roller rack, the lids replaced, and they’d be sent outside again through a second small door. Now outside, they’d roll along this rack, clanking and banging, until they reached the end. With one final loud crash, they’d come to a stop. They’d make no more sound until they were reloaded onto the truck for the return trip to the farm. Loading the truck wasn’t silent.
By noon, the milk delivery would be completed. By evening, the inside work would be finished and the dairy would close for the day.
The rack with rollers became a source of amusement for neighbourhood kids. It ran for a little over a hundred feet with enough decline that we could manage some exciting speeds on it. We’d make a car from a cardboard box and with a good shove, we’d enjoy the ride of a lifetime. At least until near the rack’s end. At the end, there was a steel barricade to stop the milk cans. It sure stopped us too. Hitting it hurt. As we neared the end of the rack, we’d jump. It required great timing: too early would short-change our ride; too late and we’d crash. Typically, we’d ride the rollers until one of two events ended our fun: the cardboard box would disintegrate; or someone would get hurt.
When the snow ploughs awakened me this morning, I was transported back decades. I was living in the old family house. My parents were downstairs making breakfast. (I didn’t finish my homework!) I wanted to ride the rollers one more time. I had forgotten my age. I remembered fun. It’s like there’s a kid inside my body who wants to get out.
At breakfast, I asked my husband if he enjoys riding on roller-coasters. He does. I suggested we visit an amusement park sometime this summer. He agreed. I can’t wait!
Join the InvestorsHub Community
Register for free to join our community of investors and share your ideas. You will also get access to streaming quotes, interactive charts, trades, portfolio, live options flow and more tools.
