Cold Times in Minnesota

Beth and Karen, skating at the park, 1961

This past week we’ve had snow almost every day, and it is currently piled high all around, maybe 8 inches on the patio table, and clustered beautifully along the branches of each tree. As I was outside the other morning helping to shovel, the muffled stillness of the snowy landscape brought back memories of my childhood winters in Minnesota.

Mornings would often start with the sound of my dad’s snow shovel scraping up the snow. As winter wore on, the pile by the driveway would be higher than his head. My mom and sister and I would stay warm inside. If the snowfall was extra deep, I would stand by the turquoise plastic kitchen radio, straining to hear the words “Highland Elementary” on the school closings list.

Beth in snow gear, c. 1961

Usually, the schools didn’t close, though, because, after all, this was Minnesota, land of hardy Swedish settlers. A little snow didn’t stop them. So I would bundle up with my lined woolen slacks under my plaid skirt (dress codes in the 60s still required girls to wear dresses), pull on the fleece lined boots, don the heavy woolen coat (evidently down parkas hadn’t been invented), and the knitted hat and mittens and scarf. Sometimes I would wear gloves under the mittens, to be warmer. The scarf would tie around my nose and mouth, the hat would be pulled down to my eyebrows, so only my eyes were narrowly exposed. I would walk on freshly shoveled paths to the corner bus stop and stand to wait. The cold would find its way through my layers and as the warm breath wafted up from my scarf, my eyelashes would frost up.

School recess was mandated by the hardy Swedes. If the temperatures were above zero (as I remember it) we all went outside for recess. This was required. In fact, in 6^th grade when I was given the honor of being a school patrol girl, one of our responsibilities was to stand by the door at recess and not let anyone in. We were a sturdy bunch.

Not that it really bothered us. We were all bundled up and we played hard. Not snowballs or snowmen, because in Minnesota the snow if too powdery to pack into balls. But snow forts and fox and geese and king of the hill on the giant mountain of snow left after plowing the school parking lot.

The snow and ice were fun outside of school too. Every park, it seemed, had a small skating rink where we could skate for free. In fact, many families flooded their backyards for their own personal rinks. All the kids had their own skates and we would go to the rink often. Nothing fancy—just around in circles, and sometimes we would form a chain and play crack the whip. At the park, there was a shelter nearby where we could get out of the cold a little.

Our family had a long wooden toboggan.  On Saturday afternoons, my friend Susan and I would carry it to the top of a long gentle slope in a vacant lot around the corner. We would take our seats and sail down the hill, waving our arms and legs in various creative routines. We thought we were pretty great, and called ourselves the Tobogganettes.

Beth and friends at caroling party, 1963

At Christmas time, Susan and I would host a caroling party for the kids in the neighborhood. We would make cookies, the kids would gather at one of our houses, and then we would go out in the frosty cold night, the snow squeaking beneath our feet, to sing to each of the neighbors on our street. One time we standing on a neighbor’s porch, sweetly singing “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear,” when a giant icicle dropped on my friend’s head, knocking her cold.

Turning fourteen was a big deal in my life because then I was allowed to attend the regional church dances. These were held every month, and everyone went, teens and grownups. I learned the fox trot from my Sunday School teacher’s husband and the polka from my dad’s friend. The biggest dance of the year was the New Year’s Eve dance. We danced until midnight, then cheered and kissed everyone in sight. After a nice supper, everyone would head out to the parking lot to go home. One year as we came out to the parking lot, the only sound was the fruitless cranking of dozens of engines. It was so cold that all the batteries had died. Luckily, one or two cars started, and they were able to jump-start all the other cars.

These are just stories that anyone who has lived in a very cold place loves to tell—war stories of a sort. We lived, we survived. But here is the best part: we faced the cold with others. Together we made the best of a cold time. There is something wonderful about a cold evening when you open the door to friends all bundled up and smiling. They come into the warmth and light of your home, shedding coats, hats, scarves, and boots. Together you laugh and talk and eat and the cold outside only makes the inside warmer.