A Winter Wonderland

Although we lived there almost 5 years, I have never seen a single photograph from that period of Court Street in full winter regalia, so I am left with my memories of winters in Pueblo, Colorado and a need to describe the splendor of a cherished life there.

Our home, between Court and Grand street on 22nd was a white stuccoed Tudor with green trim. It fit oddly into the cross-section of building periods represented within a few square blocks. Directly across the street a large farmhouse and its' outbuildings occupied more space than the rest of the neighborhood lots, which had undoubtedly been carved from its' original acreage. Heading south around the corner on Grand were bookended Victorian era row houses, ambling and ample, some made into apartments. To the north, after a couple of lovely and graciously grounded Victorian homes, a succession of Arts and Crafts style Bungalows stretched on,and spread, seemingly in every direction for several miles. Court street had a few brick houses that seemed that seemed to have been more recently built, but by and large it was a '30's neighborhood all the way south to Mineral Palace Park. An abundance of trees of every kind and landscaping, fountains, and statuary, to complement different homes made any stroll interesting.

In the spring I preferred the walk past the Victorians toward Thatcher Elementary school. But in the winter nothing could possibly compare with the five block walk down Court Street through a tall cathedral of interlaced branches laden with icicles and an ample dusting of snow .

Leaving the warmth of our home and dressed in wool from head to toe, we would join the silent march of people, some as young as 5 and others as old as 18, headed toward our various schools. The high schoolers walked a full mile to the old Centennial High, and the Junior High, Freed, was something more than a half mile. If you were on the way to the elementary school you avoided the carefully shoveled walks and took your trek through the mounds of snow on either side of the walk in order to enjoy the muffled crunch of the snow as you packed it with your boot prints.

The few conversations were animated, but hushed in the winter, because the snow both insulated and amplified every sound. In the white silence, the occasional drip of ice melting from a roof or breathing of the earth beneath the snow pack left an anticipation of something inexpressible. Peace and quiet reigned. The work of living was shortened by the hours allowed by the sun. Crocus and violets were months away and I willed them dormant to allow plenty of time for this long respite the earth seemed to crave. Snow left a long trail toward Christmas and a school holiday. It made evenings by the fire place with popcorn or hot chocolate and Nat King Cole or Sing Along with Mitch, or, better, the piano and Christmas carols.

In the rituals of winter our mother scattered cornbread on the snow for the birds that failed to migrate, commenting on one particularly fat robin who had stayed behind. She hung our father's starched shirts on the line to freeze, their arms outstretched in a bizarre gesture satisfied only by the singed smell of the iron soothing away the wrinkles and restoring warmth. Periodically after a fresh snow a big enamel pan was filled with the white fluff, sugared, and vanilla flavored for "snow ice cream".

My brother considered it play to shovel the walk, at least at first, and the widow next door was given a free shoveling guaranteed by our parents. If the adults minded shoveling sidewalks or driveways, we were unaware. It was with a smile that our father took off his overcoat to inform us he had put chains on the tires.

The house was kept cold, except for the living areas and kitchen. Thawing was done in front of an open oven in the kitchen, the fireplace in the living room, or grate from the furnace. Drawn together by the warmth, we sang at the piano or watched television shows that presented our portion of the Camelot dream. Walter Cronkite assured us that we were all a part of a greater whole as we contemplated the changing times. The Lovely Lemon Sisters sang sweetly. Haws, Adam, and Little Joe, all failed to marry, but stayed close to Pa doing chores on the Ponderosa. And Captain Kangaroo kept the Treasure House ready for us when we awakened every morning.

Although there were furnace outlets in our bedrooms, we preferred our bedrooms cool, at least a half inch of window open to allow fresh air in the winter. Pajamas were flannel, quilts were wool and corduroy. Once in bed we could hardly turn over for the weight of quilts that took a while to warm to body temperature.

On weekends and during the holidays it was our joy to make forts for fabulous snowball fights. A good snow could provide a virtual empire of walls and fortresses, and an inexhaustible supply of snowball fights for the entire neighborhood. Some winters our growth outstripped our parents' budget, and the right size in boots or mittens was not on hand. Several layers of socks and plastic bags tied over our shoes (or hands, in the absence of mittens) enabled survival for battlefield forays.

If we were lucky, it was the year of the Wintertime Olympics. In that case, Mother celebrated with a batch of homemade yeast rolls and butter. Or Daddy popped corn in the little fireplace pan with a wooden handle. We were fortunate enough to have ice skates and after watching the graceful presentations on television, headed to the park to skate in less graceful patterns, but with no less satisfaction than the Olympiads.

Eventually the last snow melted and the violets and crocuses presented the first colors of spring as the noise of birds filled the branches on Court Street and in the expanse of the park. We peeled back some of the layers on our beds, and shed our coats for spring sweaters. As for me, I shifted my walking arrangements to gaze at the Victorians on Grand street once more, since the park offered the main visual course in the spring, and I had to get to school on time.