The Silly Symbolism of Snow

Once the snow begins to fall I feel like I am under siege from some apocalyptic force out to personally destroy me and everything I stand for. Why me? WHY?!?! Obviously weather operates to affect people individually. Kind of like when Old Man Winter gets all political and snows in Washington D.C.—in February. Obviously it doesn’t snow as a result of occurrences in a complex ecosystem; rather, it snows to prove to Sean Hannity, Glen Beck and Rush Limbaugh that [insert creepy music] LIBERALS are WRONG. About what? It doesn’t matter they just are. Screw you Al Gore! My bad. I digress. But why is it that I (and I am guessing others) react so strongly to things like weather? Why do the little things that fade into the background of our consciousness affect us so greatly? And to even see these little things we have to excavate the most cavernous parts of ourselves!

I’ve always hated snow and cold weather. Anything below 60 degrees Fahrenheit borders on personal misery, and falling snow may as well be a hungry swarm of tiny frozen locusts – THE END IS HERE! THE END IS HERE! For example, I write this as Winter rudely storms me and my hometown of Denver. It is the last day of Winter and it is releasing its vengeance on us (ME). Probably because it was 70 degrees the past two days and Winter feasts on our (my) misery and is a jealous mistress (or mistER). Probably because it wants to remind us (me) that we’re (I’m) not safe in the cozy clutches of the soon-to-be Spring. IT is not bound by a calendar or even a season. IT will return. Oh yes, IT will return. On a once-warm May evening when a storm blows through unannounced and uninvited, and many other times in-between. Yes, IT can snow in May in Denver. Much to my chagrin.

Even as a kid when others were playing in the snow, I would retreat as soon as my socks got wet and my toes iced over – which obviously didn’t take long. This sucked, but even small things about Winter frosted my hide. I always hated wearing jackets because I loathe all that added shit on me, but more so I hated the rustling noise of nylon rubbing against itself. Yuk. It was (is) my personal nails-on-a-chalkboard. That and the squeaky/crunchy sound of walking on nearly frozen snow. You know AFTER it had been shoveled and there is still a slight layer of snow pack. Oddly it has a sound very similar to rubbing nylon. Yuk. Also on my pet-peeve-shit-list: when your gloves got wet and froze themselves to themselves, and I’d realize this as I used this fabric iceball to wipe my nose, only to find out it wasn’t liquid snot that filled my nose – NO it was a painful series of frozen snotcicles forming on the tiny hairs in my nose. So I learned early on that the cold and snow are like heartless invaders penetrating each warm part of you. Feasting on body heat until it is no longer. No retreat. No surrender. Coats. Mittens. Beanies. All delayed the inevitable: you WILL be cold soon. You WILL not go outside and defeat cold on its own turf. Muwhahaha!

Thus, victory came in the form of patience and seasonal cycles. I’d long for spring days when fragrant flowers bloom on bushes. I was told they weren’t actually lilacs, but they were purple and just as sweet. I’d pick them, smell all the smell out of them and give them to my mom. If she wanted that sweet scent she had to go get her own. Moreover, the first buds on a tree reminded me of a million immaculate pregnancies. Not sure how or why it happened, but I was sure god had something to do with it. People outside. Dogs chasing Frisbees. People chasing dogs. People chasing people. Oo La La! Spring to me, as it is to many, is about life. Things coming back from a long death. No longer were you effectually grounded by the elements. It was like turning 18 and knowing that your parents’ rules no longer applied. It was freedom. \m/ In fact, is it any coincidence that Memorial and Labor Day, and the Fourth of July all happen in the “life” months? And Easter? It celebrates rebirth, and for Christians resurrection! And you may want to say “what about Christmas”? But most archeological scholars say Jesus (if he existed) was born sometime in April. No escaping it. Winter is death.

So as you can see, my entire life I’ve subconsciously (and consciously) subscribed to the symbolism of the seasons. And outside of the symbolism there is something real to how seasons affect people. Vitamin D (which you can get with sunshine) has a very positive effect on your mood and health. Indeed, there is plenty of science that shows sunshine and warm temps = good and cold and grey and snow = bad. However, let me expand on the power of what spring and summer means and how it reinforces what I want it to be – and, conversely, what winter and fall means.

Much of what I mention is my mind’s creation. A myth I create in my head and reinforce to define who I am and the world around me. To illustrate let me introduce you to my mother and grandmother. My grandmother was originally from Minnesota and is of Norwegian descent. I can’t imagine a cooler origin than that combination. My mother stems from this lineage as well, but she, like me, grew up here in Denver. One of my earliest snow-hating memories comes from when my grandmother came to visit once for the Holidays. See, she had it right a long time ago and moved to Southern California when I was still a babe. Why? Well, this Norwegian-Minnesotan-turned-Coloradan HATED the cold weather. So she moved, and I didn’t see her that often growing up. That is except when she would visit. Or I would visit Los Angeles, where she lived.

My grandmother’s visits were always like Christmas and she was St.-fucking-Nick – ironic since we weren’t religious and hated the cold and X-mas. I was the first born, so of course she spoiled me. When she was in town, my mom and dad chilled out and relaxed some of the rules (bedtime, chores, etc). Also, coming from a very poor working-class background my folks couldn’t buy me junk. Sure, my folks were awesome and hooked it up on occasion, but lack of money and overall not wanting to spoil me (thanks mom and dad because I would hate to be a materialistic prick) urged a tight wallet. But when grandma was in town she always spoiled me – spoiled me “rotten,” as she would often say. Not so much in junk, but with attention and going out. Often she would take me (and ONLY me) out to lunch. During these moments she slathered me in decadent treats like chocolate malt shakes – something my mother and father couldn’t afford and/or simply didn’t want me to have. Oh yeah, and grams totally hooked it up with the junk – toys and shit. It was awesome. Needless to say I was very fond of my grandmother and looked forward to her visits over anything else.

But back to this Christmas visit. It so happened that for this rare December visit it snowed like hell. I am not exactly sure about how much, and I have no interest in looking it up, but it had to be a couple feet. If I remember correctly the snow affected her flight and I think she was late, and because the roads were bad she didn’t visit us as often this trip. Usually when she came to Denver she would stay at her brother’s place because he still lived here, and she would make trips to our place in Edgewater (a small suburb bordering the West Side of Denver). So snow cut into my grandma time. And she wasn’t exactly her awesome self. Most of the time she was complaining about the snow and drinking Whisky. And also because the roads sucked, there were no special vince-grandma adventures and chocolate malts. We just hung out. Inside. Bitching about the snow. Granted, it was still great to spend time with my grandmother, but after that moment I never respected or tolerated the snow and cold weather again. It became a symbol of interference. Something that not only mocked the sun and killed our good mood, but interfered with a rare grandma visit.

My mother is definitely my grandmother’s child. She always complained about snow and made many of the same arguments and complaints I have so far. Coincidence? While it seems to me redundant to offer anecdotes of my mother’s winter unrest, her climatic rant is perhaps the most telling. She had just hooked up with who would become my step father. He was from Pueblo, and (after the divorce with my father) my mom had finally found someone. They had recently come back from a trip to Las Vegas (no they didn’t marry yet; they were just trying to get away from the shitty weather) and we were all visiting my grandfather for some X-mas get-together. It snowed. It snowed. It snowed. We were driving back and all I remember was my mom freaking out about not seeing but six inches ahead of us. About the slick roads. About simply seeing these frozen water molecules hovering and attacking like a swarm of killer bees (yeah, I decided I didn’t want to use the locust metaphor again). All I remember her saying was “god damn it. I’ve had enough. I’m getting the fuck out of here.” Jim, her new cuddle kitten and a quiet tempered man, agreed with similar ferocity, though through slight nods and muted “uhh huhs.” In a few months they were gone. Living in Las Vegas, and to this day my mother teases me about Colorado weather and reminds me of how beautiful it is in Arizona (they moved there a few years after living in the City of Sin).

At this point I can read your mind as you read a part of mine. “Why the hell are you in Denver then”? “Why don’t you leave”? “Why am I reading this god damned story”? Well, I can address the first two and assert that if you’re reading this on the web it is likely out of boredom and/or procrastinating from work or some other responsibility. For me, writing this satisfies the latter. But I am in Denver because I am afraid of risk and uncertainly. After the divorce I lived with my father and we had it really rough, often living in our car and, when fortunate, in motel rooms. We lived on welfare and often didn’t know how we would achieve supper. All this said, let me abandon this story because it is only relevant to the notion of why I am here still. Against my own self interest of happiness. If this weren’t the case I would be in California because that is who I am. And I mean no disrespect to transgendered/transsexual people in this comparison because I know they have it much worse, but I feel like a Californian trapped in a Colorado apartment.

My Californian obsession came from, you guessed it, my grandmother. My earliest memories come from being at the beach. In the sun. Going to places like Universal Studios and Knots Berry Farm. Venice Beach. Santa Monica. My Mother and Father and I lived there when I was very young (2-4 years old or so) and when my father was in the middle of his short-lived military career (short-lived because of an injury he sustained jumping out of a helicopter). I believe my grandmother had just moved out there too, so we were all essentially there. Sculpting the first building blocks of who I would become. But somewhere along the line and for some reason we moved back to Denver. Probably because of a job. Probably familiarity. My dad is a Denver lifer and will probably never feel comfortable being anywhere else. So we returned. (Side note: I think I got a wee bit of hometowndenveritis from my dad, even though it conflicts with my hatred of cold weather. I do love my hometown).

Also, I spent a few summers visiting my grandmother in California. As usual, I OD’d on “rotten” spoiling and fun. Beach nearly every day. Baseball games. Little road trips throughout the coast side. Arcades on Santa Monica pier. Los Angeles is a very cool place. Especially when you don’t live there and you can romanticize the sights and fun places. But my time in California— as contrasted with my time in Colorado – became a place of fun and opportunity. The coast and the beach, for example, represent youth – even for the old. Playing in the sand. Finding wonder in everything that washes up from the waves. The ocean itself is endless. It is like looking into the eyes of god and finding everything and nothing at the same time. So much in the ocean is uncharted and wondrous. There is no limit to it. It is undefined. In evolutionary terms, we came from the ocean. We are 60-plus percent water. Our minds and our origin and existence are uncharted and complex – like the ocean. We are ocean.

I believe it is my fascination and love with the ocean that has fueled much of my curiosities, and I believe it has a lot to do with defining who I am and how I see the world. For example, I believe people who love the mountains see them as a challenge. Something to overcome. Think about the metaphors we use like “climbing that mountain,” and “reaching that mountain top.” These aren’t metaphors we made on accident and use for no reason; they say something about how we view the mountains symbolically. I would contend that people who love mountains (and through connection Colorado) love challenges. Adventures that push you to a limit where there is some tangible accomplishment – i.e. the mountain’s top. Whereas, I view myself (the ocean) as someone (something) who (that) is much more abstract. I find wonder in the unknown. The ungraspable. Like the ocean. You can grab onto it only to watch it slip through your fingers. You can chart the sea but it is unlikely you’ll ever conquer it or understand it like you can a mountain. Someone like me can look at the mountains and feel nothing. It is a big rock. I can see it. Touch it. Define it. Great. The ocean, however, I cannot. So in addition to it being cold here in my hometown, I am landlocked and lost. I’m too far from my source of wonderment and feel painfully displaced. And I wholeheartedly believe I am this way because of the mythology I made for myself growing up. The mythology my mother and my grandmother helped cultivate.

Moreover, while I create this in my mind, it is simultaneously based on actual events and ideas and thoughts I’ve encountered. They reinforce each other. My experiences and my grandmother and mother helped me define what cold weather is. What snow is. What, conversely, the coast and sun-drenched Southern California is. For some people California is a huge dirty shithole. The beaches are packed and dirty. The people are pricks. Some associate snow and cold with hot chocolate, warm hugs and Christmas gifts. Maybe snowboarding and skiing. Somewhere along the line they developed their own mythology that defines how they see these things. And even though Colorado and the Front Range have grown, they view this area as an untainted natural and recreational heaven. To them snow is something exciting and wondrous and endless. Something to play in. Something beautiful to look at driving home. To me I would rather have god shit on me from the clouds than deal with snow, and the mountains are simply boring.

My final point is how identity plays a part in all this. Because this is the mythology I subscribe to in regards to weather and natural things like oceans v. mountains, I invent myself in my daily life. When it snows, I am miserable because that misery helps define who I am. I am not offended that frozen water crystals actually prevent me from doing something; I am offended because I tell myself they do, and because I want them to. And ocean isn’t inherently abstract and endless, but it is to me, and I feel an affinity to ocean because it reflects me because I make it my reflection. These myths are like my children and I nurture them. I see myself in them.

I feel sorry for those close to me because I react so extremely to weather, and I talk about how much I hate Colorado. Many of these people are also from here and get slightly offended because much of their mythology and identify are centered in their Denver/Colorado origin. So is mine – I can talk shit about Denver but you can’t! Some of them love the snow (fucking sickos). I also feel sorry for these folks because hearing someone complain all the time – especially about something they perceive as silly like weather – can be annoying and a drag. Thus, I suppose I wrote this to explain something to you, my readers and friends, and to myself. There are things that define us in ways that are profound and beyond our own comprehension. They define every thought we have and every action we take. This is my attempt to touch the surface of my own thinking, and perhaps inspire someone else to look deeper at how the unnoticed defines her. Or him. And, in all honesty, I wrote this to avoid grading papers and to reconnect with something I love dearly and don’t spend nearly enough time with: writing.

Now that’s something I can write about next.