Mum and the Abominable Snow Clothes.

In the North of New Zealand, snow is a strange, wonderful idea. One reads about it in books and sees it on films. But it’s hard to come by in the subtropics.

We did see it once.   It was spring, and someone had had the bright idea of shipping in a truckload of the stuff to the local park. They had dumped it in a large heap and it was possible to toboggan down it for a short distance. With my limited understanding, I assumed that the children joyously slithering across the snow were professional toboggan riders and the whole thing was a show put on by the city council.  

Mum, blessed with the thrift of Scottish ancestry, tactfully refrained from informing me that the heap of snow was actually a commercial venture and that the toboggans were available for hire. I must say, that worked out jolly well for her.

About ten years later, we were living in Connecticut, and we were counting down the days to winter. The locals had been reassuring about our snow questions. Yes, it snowed in Connecticut. Yes, it snowed a lot. Yes, it was cold but they couldn’t remember anyone ever losing a toe to frostbite. This last, morbid question was mine and I was pleased to have it cleared up.

We were looking forward to the snow (fancy getting it for free), but it was currently summer and summer in Connecticut is not without attractions. Take for instance your average American watermelon. I say average, but really this is a fruit that if I could, I would write a sonnet about.

To start with, it’s about three times bigger than it’s Down Under Cousins. It grows rounder, taller and sweeter. Its innards are more flavourful. There’s more of it and it’s unbelievably cheap. Watermelon is a bit of a party treat in New Zealand.

In America, it’s not. It’s just THERE; iconic, ever present and delicious. Even the rinds were worth eating. That had the added advantage of disgusting our refined American audience.

Yes, Summer in Connecticut was glorious. There were screaming crickets in the trees, snakes in the lake and ticks to be avoided.

There was tag saleing, which we assumed (on first being invited to do it) would be spelt ‘tag sailing’ and involve some sort of boat. But it didn’t. It involved a van and early morning starts and yard sales filled with fascinating stuff that you couldn’t find in New Zealand. On the whole, we felt ‘tag saleing’ was an upgrade on ‘tag sailing’.

And then there were the thrift stores. Oh wonderful, wonderful American thrift stores. You could find ANYTHING in an American thrift store. And what was more, we could GET anything in an American thrift store because Dad was in a holiday mood and would let us throw anything we wanted into the shopping cart. And Mum didn’t even contradict him. Mum would quietly vanish in these thrift stores and reappear unobtrusively at the checkout line, and we didn’t bother to know what she had found.

American summer passed into American Autumn; more specifically, New England Autumn and like the watermelon, this subject also deserves a sonnet, but I don’t know how, so I shall simply say, it was very pretty.

Weak, I know. But anyone who’s ever seen a New England Autumn will understand why I don’t really feel up to describing it.

Then came winter.

Then came snow.

And I know JUST how to describe that. It looked like God had taken a giant sieve full of powdered sugar and shaken it lightly over the whole world.

It was a very slight snow. But it was perfect.

We ran out, shouting jubilantly at the glorious sight. There was just enough snow to scrape up tiny snowballs and throw them at each other. It was like something from a film! It was a fairytale come to life.

“WHAT ARE YOU FOOLISH KIDS, DOING?”

There was nothing film like or dreamy about THAT voice. We turned and saw Mum, glaring down at us from an upstairs window.

“YOU’RE NOT WEARING ENOUGH CLOTHES!” the maternal voice boomed on. “GET INSIDE NOW BEFORE YOU ALL DIE OF EXPOSURE!”

There was nothing for it. Exchanging sulking looks, we got inside. Mum was waiting for us in the entrance, but she was not alone.

She was accompanied by a heap of clothes. Huge, horrible, ugly, and bulky clothes.

 Mum, having hauled her chicks in from the cold, had discarded the awful voice and angry face. She smiled at us proudly. “Put on your snow clothes,” she said, kindly. “I’ve been collecting them all summer and Autumn. Put them on and you can go back outside and play.”

We looked at the clothes. We looked at each other. Now we realized WHY Mum hadn’t been around to stop Dad giving us whatever we wanted in a thrift store. She’d been hunting and gathering up this awful pile.

“I thought this one would fit Ruth nicely.” Mum moved forward with something in a shade of mustard that would make a hotdog feel ill.

Not that any of the other colours were any better.

Revolution filled the air. We glowered at our mother and then we began yelling.

“AW MUM! It’s not even COLD!”

“MUM! Those are SO ugly. I don’t want to!”

“MUM, IT’S ONLY A LITTLE BIT OF SNOW!”

“I’m NOT going to look like a giant booger!”  

Mum stopped smiling warmly and proudly. She glared at us. She pulled herself up to her not very impressive height and then boomed in her very impressive voice, “IF YOU DON’T PUT YOUR SNOW CLOTHES ON, YOU’RE NEVER GOING OUT INTO THE SNOW!”

We looked at her, aghast. It was an unbearable threat.  

Hastily, we began to zip ourselves into the unappealing clothes. Certainly, Mum had provided lavishly. By the time we were fully dressed, movement was difficult.

We tottered back out into the snow. But the magic was gone. It was impossible to frolic wearing all those clothes. It was, we felt, a bitter cup. But it was about to get much, much worse.

Because as we stood on the slight sprinkling of snow, embalmed in our awful, ugly snowsuits, a van pulled up our drive.

A van, containing an American family.  A very cool family, in whose eyes we had no desire to look foolish.

The van pulled to a stop. The side door flew open. Out tumbled a pile of American kids, all wearing jeans and T-shirts. Not even sweaters. They looked at us.

 Then they laughed.

 And laughed.

And laughed.

“HA HA HA! Those are clothes for when it’s REALLY cold!” they shouted.

Even the mother, trying to be polite, was doubled up, apparently coughing, into her steering wheel.  

We turned as one to confront OUR mother. Fury was in our hearts. And there she stood, normally attired, in the doorway of the house. She was smiling sheepishly. She hadn’t had time to put on her snow suit.

I must say, that worked out jolly well for HER.