FIRST SNOW

It had felt like snow for several days. “Feel it in my bones,” Ma said. It was mid-November, and each morning’s walk to our country school seemed a bit chillier, and damper, too. The bare oaks alongside our country road stood silent against a slate gray sky. More than a week had passed without sunshine—cold, dreary days and ever longer nights.

As we walked to school on this dreary November morning, my brothers and I watched and wished for snow—a change from the dull browns of late fall, the boring landscape devoid of color or excitement. A few days earlier it had rained; the milk truck and the few cars that passed along our dirt road had created ruts that were now frozen into brown ribbons of hard walking. We hiked along the edges of the road, where the frozen dirt and the dried grasses met and the walking was a bit easier. Pa had suggested that we wear our rubber boots to school; he was that sure it would snow. My brothers and I had protested a bit but did what he said. He was usually right, especially when it came to predicting the weather.

As we topped Millers’ Hill, we heard the school bell ringing, a clear tone that echoed through the valley and rolled up the hills and along the country roads leading to the school. The big cast-iron bell hanging in the bell tower on top of the school told us it was 8:30 and reminded us to hurry along if we didn’t want to be marked tardy.

We walked into the school a few minutes before nine, the official starting time, and were greeted by Maxine Thompson, our teacher that year. We stashed our lunch buckets (former Karo syrup pails) on the shelf in the school’s entryway.

“Might as well keep your coats on,” Miss Thompson said. “We’re about ready for the flag raising.” One of the eighth graders grabbed the thick rope that hung in the entryway and led up to the bell tower and gave it a long pull. Dong, dong, dong, the bell responded, and another day at Chain O’ Lake School, District Number 4, Town of Rose, Waushara County, Wisconsin, began.

We gathered at the flagpole, where another eighth grader had the duty of snapping the flag to the pole rope and pulling the flag into position at the top of the pole. With the flag in place, we all recited the Pledge of Allegiance before filing back into the school and hanging our coats and caps on hooks in the entryway. I glanced at the sky before going inside. The clouds appeared heavier and thicker, and a stiff breeze had come up from the southwest, from the direction of the lake that was a quarter mile or so down the hill and bore the same name as the school, Chain O’ Lake.

Miss Thompson had already started the fire in the big wood-burning stove that stood in the back of the school, and the inside of the building was warm and comfortable as we found our seats and took out our books for the day’s lessons. Soon the room was quiet, just the way Miss Thompson liked it, the only sounds the tick-tock, tick-tock of the Regulator clock on the north wall, the occasional snapping and crackling of wood burning in the big stove, and the southwest wind rattling the windows. Although tall windows on the north and south ends of the school allowed in as much natural light as possible, the light was murky on this dark fall day, and Miss Thompson flipped on the electric lights. Almost none of us had electricity at home, so we all marveled at how a few lightbulbs strung across the ceiling could turn the dreary room into one that was somewhat cheerful on dark, cloudy days.

I had difficulty concentrating on my lessons; all I could think about was the first snow of the season and how everything would change when it arrived. I thought about all the fun things associated with snow—sledding, skiing, snowball fights—and pushed from my mind snow shoveling, wet mittens, and snow-blocked roads.

I saw the first snowflake about midmorning, a half hour or so before recess. At least, I thought it was a snowflake; it was hard to tell, as the wind kicked up bits of leaves and grass and swirled them around. Then I saw another and another, saw them sticking to the schoolhouse windows before melting and sliding down as raindrops might do, leaving little moisture trails.

At recess time we all burst outside, running like calves let out of the barn for the first time, turning our faces to the sky and feeling the snowflakes on our cheeks, trying to form snowballs—there wasn’t enough snow yet—and running around like we were possessed by first snowfall demons. Twenty kids celebrated the first snowfall, first graders to eighth graders all rejoicing together. And then Miss Thompson came outside as well, wearing her thin cotton coat and a head scarf. She held out her hand, caught a snowflake, and smiled.

“Let’s play fox and geese,” someone yelled, and we all gathered at the now snow-covered softball diamond and watched while a couple of the older kids walked a big circle in the snow, then divided the circle into four parts, like spokes in a wheel with a hub in the center. On this day we would not play anti-I-over, run sheep run, kick the can, pom-pom pull-away, or the other school games we played after softball season ended. It was time to shift from fall to winter games.

To play fox and geese, one person is the fox and the rest are geese. The fox chases the geese, who run around the outside of the circle and sometimes escape to the hub, considered a free zone. But only one person may be in the free zone at a time. The last goose the fox catches becomes the next fox, and the game continues.

Back inside the schoolroom after recess, with rosy cheeks and smiles on our faces, we resumed our studies. At noon we would do it all over again, playing and laughing and celebrating the change in seasons. No matter what the calendar said, for most of us kids that first snow signaled the true beginning of winter.