Category: My Nostalgic Childhood Memories

SNOW

January 26, 2025

I have learned through my journey in life, that the greatest gifts come to us in the simplest forms and unfold when you least expect them… Louisa Cambridge

My dog Daisy after a Colleyville snowstorm

There’s a “tucked in” sensation, a “coziness” that rests upon a house when you wake up in the morning and discover that Old Man Winter has covered your neighborhood in ice and snow. This was one of those mornings. As I peeked through the shutters on my front windows, I saw that indeed, a very light sprinkling of snow had fallen the night before. And as I drank my morning coffee to begin my day, I could hear sleet falling against the skylight above my head.  

My family’s house in Berea in 1961

I first time I became aware of this “tucked-in” sensation was in the early 1960’s, when I was a small child living in Ohio. We were rooted in a lovely equestrian community in the city of Berea, which is next to the “snow-belt” region on the western side of Cleveland. Throughout my childhood, the first snowfall routinely fell in the month of November, a week or two before Thanksgiving. This wonderous event not only marked the transformation of autumn into winter, but it also rang in the beginning of the holiday season.

My Grandparents house in Bay Village in the early 1960’s

My grandparents lived eleven miles away in a town that stretched along the shorelines of Lake Erie, called Bay Village. Every year my grandparents hosted our family festivities, which included a lovely, sit-down meal for both Thanksgiving and Christmas Day.

The holidays were the only occasion that Grandma asked us to enter the house through the front entryway. This extra touch of formality seemed to jump start the evening’s festivities. In the evening of Christmas day, before I went inside, I took a moment to pause and soak up the serene glow of the colorful Christmas lights shining brilliantly subdued under a thick layer of snow.

A Berea snowfall when I was five. My mother made the snow people.

In the 1960’s, winters in Cleveland were often laden with heavy snowfalls. There were occasions when the wind blew huge snowdrifts against our windows and doors. These drifts not only blocked our ability to see outside but rendered us captive indoors. To resolve this problem, my mother dressed me in my snow ware and sent me outside through the milk shoot, normally used by the milkman (we still had milk delivered to the house back then). My job, and I took it to heart, was to shovel away the drifts blocking our view and freedom.

It was particularly exciting when a blizzard blew in during the holiday season, especially when I was in school. The classroom became increasingly distracted and restless as the snow collected outside. If it continued to accumulate, we began to anticipate the announcement over the intercom telling us that school was released. A tremendous sensation of freedom like wind in the sails, almost lifted me from the ground when I stepped outside.

Just before I turned eleven, my parents moved into a house in Bay Village that was just one street over from my Grandparents’ house. There, I attended Bay Middle School. Every year I had at least one subject in a classroom where I could see Bay’s outdoor ice-skating rink across the street. We had a local woman, Karen Kresge who performed with the touring Ice Capades. Sometimes she practiced on that rink. I watched her captivated by her grace and skill.

Our house on Oakmoor Dr. in Bay Village. Sadly, after we moved away, it burned down.

Since Bay Village sat along the shorelines of Lake Erie, we were particularly susceptible to the “lake front” weather systems that sometimes sent blizzardly, winter snowfalls our way. By now my fellow middle schoolers and I were well seasoned to the cause and affects regarding blizzards and school closing. When the snow began to fall in a blinding flurry, our attention turned away the lesson at hand, to focus on what was happening outside.

One of my teachers, in a feeble attempt to regain control, allowed us a few minutes to gather at the windows so we could “get the snow out of our systems.” Instead, we began to anticipate the announcement that would release us for the day. After the announcement came, we flocked to our lockers, where I donned my winter apparel, slung my backpack over my shoulder and picked up my violin case. Leaving the warmth and shelter of the school, I stepped straightway into the bitter cold where the landscape was covered in ice and a carpet of white.

Briskly walking across the schoolyard under a blinding flurry, I did my best to dodge flying snowballs and quickened my pace to cross the street to the sidewalks running along Wolf Road. The sky was heavy with thick snow clouds that cast the land in greyscale. I absorbed my surroundings, relishing the cold, walking home to my house on Oakmoor Drive. I was older now, so instead of playing outside I cuddled up inside embraced by warmth, quietly reading, or watching “Dark Shadows“ on TV.

One night after dinner, I donned my winter coat and snow boots and went outside to walk to my grandmother’s house. It had snowed all day and the schools were closed. As I stepped into our front yard I literally gasped! A breathtaking carpet of deep snow covered the entire neighborhood. What’s more, the snow was completely unblemished! Snowplows had not made their way down the street. Nothing had disturbed the quietude of white. The snow’s radiance twinkled like tiny diamonds or fairy dust, under the streetlamps. Instantly I realized that I was witnessing something purely majestic. For several minutes, I tried my very best to absorb the sights and sensations I was experiencing, imprinting both to my memory.

Now, in the thirty-plus years that I have lived in Texas, significant snowfalls are far and few between. One of the most memorable took place in Colleyville on a Christmas Eve, the night that Jeff and I host our family’s gathering. Back then, we took everyone out to eat prior to opening presents at home. However, on this particular eve, a Cleveland-like snowstorm, dropped large, fluffy flakes in a flurry of snow that fell like a blinding sheet. The inches were accumulating fast! One-by-one, restaurants around us closed—all except I-Hop.

This was the view from our back porch, before our family arrived for Christmas Eve.

Following Jeff’s gallant lead, the family caravanned over to I-Hop. The children (grandchildren) were so excited and entranced by the snow, that it took a great deal of persuasion to get them inside the restaurant to eat. The magical snowfall had significantly elevated our joy and excitement. After dinner when we returned to the house, I was struck by the unblemished snow that covered our land in white, particularly in the pastures. I asked the family to gather with me on the back porch, so they could take in the rare and beautiful sight. “This is exactly what my childhood was like,” I told them, yearning for them to experience the same wonderment I was blessed with growing up.

Aldon after his call this morning.

And then… this morning as I was working on this story, quite unexpectedly, my grandson Aldon called me from his house in Mississippi. He was unable to contain his excitement because he too woke up to discover his neighborhood covered in snow. Snow is a novelty in his region because of the warmer temperatures and high humidity levels coming off the Gulf of Mexico. But today his city is experiencing a record forecast of 100% heavy snow and it’s still falling!

Two hours later, my son, Andy, Aldon’s dad called. He too is excited about the snow and exclaims, “it’s still falling!” The snow has brought the inner child out of him.

Two hours later, right after Andy called me.

As the day progressed, I couldn’t help but wonder; did Aldon sensed that “tucked-in” sensation when he woke up this morning? Later in the evening he called me. “I’ve never seen so many people in our neighborhood outside at one time!” He exclaimed “Everyone was outdoors.” I listened to him elaborate about his day and then I asked him if he sensed that “tucked-in” sensation when he woke up. “Do you know what Abi (Ah-bee),” he said, “I actually did!”

The Magic of Holiday Family Gatherings

December 1, 2024
My grandmother’s house on Lake Forest Dr.

Autumn’s leaves have been raked away, leaving only a memory of their musty smell.  Each day the coming of winter is more apparent in the sky.  The crispness in the air has turned bitter cold, heavy with the promise of snow. Long pasted are the sweltering months of summer and their elongated days. Like a jewel, the holidays descend upon our cities and towns, like a gentle hand of blessing ushering in joy and good cheer.  Youngsters begin to count the days before Thanksgiving break, sitting in their classrooms learning about Pilgrims, Indians and the Mayflower’s voyage.

In the late 1950’s, early 1960’s, I was a child, living in Berea, Ohio. As soon as Thanksgiving preparations roused the cities along the shores of Cleveland into holiday preparations, great anticipation stirred in my siblings and me. My family, along with my uncle’s family and a few other assorted relatives, gathered for the holidays at my grandmother and grandfather Bury’s house in Bay Village, Ohio.

Thanksgiving and Christmas were the only time of year that we entered their house through the front door. The light emanating from inside welcomed us like a warm embrace, as a gust of wind pushed us through the open door. Shaking off the cold, we took off our snow-covered boots, stuffed hats and mittens into our pockets, so they didn’t get lost and hung our coats in the closet to the side of the front door.  Instantly, the savory smells of grandma’s meal, roasted turkey, sage stuffing, oranges, brewing coffee and pumpkin pie caused our mouths to water.  And the goodwill!  The joy of reuniting with family members you hadn’t seen in a while.  As children my cousins and I grouped together running off to the basement or upstairs to play, while the women gathered in the kitchen. The men sat in front of the television to watch baseball and smoke pipes. 

 For these gatherings, my grandmother adorned her house with cheer.  The table was an elegant sight, adorned with her favorite sheer-pink tablecloth and finest china and silver.  Pale-pink goblets glittered under her crystal chandelier that hung over the table. The long-stemmed candles burning on the table reflected off of them. 

In her living room, grandma filled vintage dishes with of nuts and sweets.  The adults cautioned the children to wait until after dinner to sample them.  But, sly little fingers, finding the temptation too great, emptied many of the dishes. My mother pretended not to notice. 

 When the family finally sat down to feast, the children were seated at miniature tables that were set with miniature China. After the meal, and the cleaning of the kitchen, the women retreated to the living room to join the men. They discussed current events, but mostly, spent time catching up on each other’s lives. My cousins and I amused ourselves playing board games. 

Inevitably, the women’s conversation drifted toward reminiscing over the past. As soon as the stories, usually told by my grandmother, turned funny, my brothers, cousins and I gathered at her feet to listen. We knew the stories well, but grandma was a skilled storyteller, having grown up in the days when her large family used to gather on their homestead’s front porch for a night of storytelling delivered by my great-grandparents.

Picture albums were pulled out. We looked at photos depicting another time.  We studied the faces of loved ones we never met but they were our family members too and helped sculpt our heritage. 

As soon as the sun was fully set, the photos albums were stored back in their cabinet and grandpa’s 8mm movie projector and screen were set up.  Pie and coffee was passed around. The lights were dimmed. While eating our desert, we watched movies of our parents and ourselves. Far from our imaginations were the days to come with digital imaging.

Late in the evening Thanksgiving came to an end. The babies were tired and cranky and ready for bed. Those of us who were older, knew we would see each other soon.  For Christmas was right around the corner. Grandma would once more open her house.  This time with the glitter, lights and the intrigue only found in Christmas. With presents for each of us, stockings and more stories to tell. With her classical, pink Christmas tree, peppermint smells and candles that I used to sit and study wishing that I lived inside their magical scenes. 

 Sadly, as I entered my early teens my cousins and I lost touch as our lives took different routes. This was caused by a mixture of several occurrences. My family, moved to a new state. All of us were married and started families of our own. But the most impactful factor was when my grandparents sold their house in Bay Village and moved to Florida.

 It’s impossible for me to greet the holiday season without thinking back on my childhood days spent in Bay Village, and the vault of memories my grandmother and grandfather gave us all.  In turn, I worked hard to establish traditions and memories my own family could cherish. Amazingly enough our holiday traditions are still going strong, not just with our own children (who are all grown), but with the many family members who have joined us along the way. And when the prep works get to be a bit too much to handle, I remind myself of the gift my husband and I are really giving… the gift of love and understanding that you have a place where you belong.