Snowballs and Hard Falls

In the simple, easily pleased eyes of a seven-year-old Minnesotan boy, there are no pleasures comparable to an easy afternoon playing in the snow. In a large pile of snow, his imagination runs freely, turning him into a master architect, world-class bobsledder, fugitive bank robber, tactical war general, fierce warrior, or just about any alter ego that seems to be attainable in the future. Indeed, a large pile of plowed up, semi-packed snow—as existed near my childhood home—is nothing short of infinite.

For the entirety of my growing up years, I lived across the street from my town’s public high school and less than a quarter of a mile from the primary school. Our location had a plethora of benefits including a short commute and quick access to sporting events. An additional bonus was that each winter, after each Minnesotan snow storm, the staff parking lot would be plowed into a large snow-storage pile that rested a stone’s throw—even that of a young boy—from my front door. 

My brothers and I thoroughly enjoyed this seemingly mountainous deposit, and loved to see it grow through the course of a winter. Multiple times each year, we would watch from the front window of our cozy home as the white blanket of snow spread across the lot was wadded and shoved to its final resting place with the powerful, precise arm of a loader. Upon the completion of this process, our work on “The Pile,” as we affectionately referred to it, would begin. 

Taking advantage of the mound’s solidity, we’d excavate elaborate cave-tunnel systems from which the fascinating world of small town U.S.A. could be observed without detection. Common citizens were discretely scrutinized, school staff and law enforcement franticly hidden from, as they possessed the authority to forcibly remove us from our frozen fort. These spy missions were great fun! However, they were not the only activities that took place in our collection of interconnected outposts. The location was far too ideal and our young minds far too boyish to resist the ever-present temptation to indulge in the occasional, good-spirited snow ball fight. 

As a snow ball fighting venue, the Pile had many advantages. The greatest of these was that one needed almost no time for snow ball prep, as the snow was already packed. It was loose enough to allow throwable chunks to be easily broken off, yet tight enough that the chunks didn’t crumble in one’s hand or disintegrate under the stress of an offensive maneuver. Unfortunately, this advantage held a hidden danger. One was not, and could not be sure of the invisible contents of the pre-made ball. Though we always hoped it to be soft, forgiving snow to the core, this was not always the case. Ice shards, dirt clods, and rocks of a noticeable size often were disguised within.

One uneventful, unspectacular afternoon, Sam, my older brother; Colin, my best friend; and I were trouncing about the Pile. My relationship with Sam, who is eighteen months my senior,  was a complex give-and-take between unconditional, brotherly love and incessant, petty competition. He refused to believe that I was superior to him in any possible facet, while I refused to accept that he could be superior to me in every possible facet. Colin spent his childhood down the street from me and is as much my brother as any man whom I have met or ever will meet. As boys, we spent hours upon hours in each other’s company because it was there that we found lightheartedness and the freedom to be ourselves. As men, he has been a provider of wise counsel, good memories, and spiritual inspiration. He has been the Jonathan to my David.

Discussion that afternoon rested upon the pressing issues of the day: blueprints for the tunnels to be dug after the next plowable storm, the ever-pertinent question of whose dad was stronger, or the enthralling events of the day in grade school. The truth is that I don't exactly recall. In fact, I couldn’t even tell you with any degree of certainty who it was that decided to hurl the first snow ball. 

Most likely it was thrown out of jest, but an event like that still requires a response. Soon the third, fourth, fifth and sixth had been broken off and slung. Before any of us really knew what had happened, we were engaged in all out, no backing down, winner-take-all war. Colin and I had no choice but to team up against the physically and tactically superior opponent, who could throw one of the frozen grenades twice as far as Colin and I combined, and had somehow managed to take the higher ground. Perched from above, he would pelt whomever peeked their head out from within their makeshift fox hole. He was relentless, as big brothers are required to be, but Colin and I were not slouches, and we certainly weren't quitters. 

Using alternating cover fire, we began to deal blows. First, they came slow, more of an annoyance than a legitimate concern to the Goliath at the summit. However, as we mastered our technique, the tides of the battle began to change. Sam was retreating, even ducking for cover! Colin and I pressed on, victory in our sights, having more fun that we had anticipated or even thought possible just minutes earlier. 

Sam was not. From birth, coping with defeat had not been easy for him, and he hadn’t had much practice as the eldest of three brothers. The reservoir of frustration began to press against the dam of his self-control. His light-hearted giggles transitioned to silence, then to whimpers of pain and growls of anger. What had once been entertainment had taken on personal implications. One more straw and the camel’s back would break.

I broke off a chunk of the nearest snow boulder, chucked it, and made a solid connection with my situational enemy. I knew not where he was hit but only that I had hit him well. He shouted angrily, “That was all ice!” My response was as expected, “No it wasn’t! It was snow!” 

Then, the unimaginable. Sam instituted what can only be described as a full bayonet charge. He barreled down the hill, snarling heavily and chucking whatever he could get his hands on at me during his advance. I was feeling big, but not big enough to confront this infuriated version of my older brother, so I began a noncommittal retreat towards the street, giggling at how silly Sam looked. As I clopped along in my heavy winter boots, Sam closed the distance rapidly, and was upon me just as I reached the street gutter, which was filled with a sloppy mixture of street treatment materials and freshly melted snow. Showing not the slightest restraint, he dealt me a powerful shove to the back. Unsuccessful attempts to reclaim my balance left me face down in the frigid, slushy, cloudy puddle.

All three of us were filled with shock and disbelief wondering, “Did this really just happen?” I began bawling with minimal delay, leaving my mouth filled with the gritty texture of sand and the salty flavor of my own tears. Sam stood by, misty eyed, and began to contemplate the imminent confrontation with our parents. As we headed towards home, I looked toward my friend Colin, who was crying. In fact, it seemed as though he was crying harder than I was. Confused, I reassuringly yelled out to him, “I’m going to be okay; don’t be sad.” He yelled back, through sobs and snot, “You’re my friend; how can I not be?”