Fluffy, white snowflakes will not dampen my spirits. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself now.
A copy of the “Fiji Times” – they’re currently hiring – is sitting on a co-worker’s desk. Thankfully it’s devoid of tempting tropical landscape photos that might cause me to respond to their want ad. Instead, the front page shows Fiji and Jamaica facing off in the Netball World Championships. From the photo, netball appears to be a hybrid of volleyball and basketball, but a quick Internet search reveals it to be a game of running, jumping, throwing and catching.
But I digress.
The snowfall seems to have come early this year – hopefully we won’t have to clean up from another major spring storm down the road – but somehow I don’t mind it so much anymore. I’m still jonsing to take a trip to Brazil in the near future and if push comes to shove, I’d still rather be on a warm beach than a ski slope, but maybe I’m overcoming my winter blues.
Growing up, I loved winter and snow, not only for snow days and Christmas, but because snow offered endless creative and recreational activities. My brother and I would spend hours outside, only agreeing to come inside when our soaked hat and mittens put us at risk for frostbite. After my father plowed our long driveway, the tall snow banks were great places for forts. I remember my father sculpting staircases and armchairs in the banks, making our domestic creations more realistic.
Sliding down the “sliding hill” was always a family favorite during winter gatherings at my grandparents’ farm. The hill was only a short walk from my parents’ house so my brother and I were frequent visitors, but it was much more fun when all of the cousins trekked up the hill together. The hill doesn’t seem so big now, but back then it could be thrill-inducing depending on your sled of choice. Inflatable snow tubes would send you flying down the hill, often spinning backwards so the rider had no knowledge of what lay ahead. The old toboggan could accommodate several people at once, provided no one minded squished legs or bumps on the head. Sore backsides were also a given, as years of tractor traffic had left a group of ruts at the base of the hill.
When storms left our driveway with an icy coating, my brother and I would take out an old steel runner sled and would take turns flying down the driveway. If we didn’t steer the blades at the right moment to navigate the turn in the driveway, we would go flying over a small hill and into a large Highbush blueberry field.  
Snowmobiling was also an activity I grew to enjoy when I could get my brother away from the machine for more than two minutes. My brother and father both now have their own machines, which I think they are nervous about letting me operate, but back in the old days, we had an older machine that didn’t go very fast, but was a lot of fun nonetheless. I remember one afternoon when my best friend and I tried to take the snowmobile out for a spin. We were probably freshmen in high school and didn’t have our drivers’ licenses, but figured a machine on skis couldn’t be too difficult to operate. We were both erratic drivers, going so slow in tricky spots we would cause the machine to stall and then fly without a care across open fields. Sometimes we would get stuck in deep snow and would have to abandon it in the middle of the field and trudge our way back to the house for help.
Once I had to start driving in the snow, I enjoyed it less and less. My knuckles turned as white as the snow on the ground as I clutched the steering wheel and inched my way along the roads with other motorists. I cursed the motorists who had the nerve to pass me in such treacherous conditions.
So far this year I’ve been too busy covering people engaged in local events to notice the snow that threatens a hazardous commute back home. When I arrived at South Portland’s Mill Creek Park for HolidayFest, the snow had just started to fall. In hindsight maybe it was a mistake to briefly leave the site of holiday cheer for a bite to eat. When I finally made my way back to the park, I had to do a set of shoulder rolls to release the tightness from my upper arms, which were strained from hunching over the steering wheel. It was a Christmas miracle that I made it back in time to see children running across the frozen pond and throwing snowballs at one another before the trees lit up the night.
When I’m in the presence of families and friends enjoying some wholesome winter fun, I can’t help, but smile and think about my own happy memories, as corny as that may sound. Then I think, “When did I become one of those people who grumbles their way through winter?”
I’ll try not to grumble so much this year. If nothing else, digging out from a foot of snow builds character and biceps. And if I stop complaining, it can also be the stuff of memories.
-Amanda Estes