Time traveling with a lime juice hangover

I posted this loverly snowpile photooo on Twitter and Facebook this morning. This is what the cities of the Great White North look like at the end of the long northern winter. That snow was probably plowed/dumped into a huge mountain back in December, when Siberia got most of its snow this winter. If I had posted a photo of the snowpile then, it would have been beautiful. A towering mountain of sparkling white snow, perfect for little Sault Ste. Siberian street urchins, like I once was, to sled on. Right into the street. Yes. Now? A pile of snow laced with dirt and the scat of whatever aminal (intentionally misspelled) happened along. Heck, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if a few of the fine folks visiting the Gin Mill a couple doors down had “watered” that hill. Er, is the Gin Mill still there? I know it burned a few years ago. I was actually *in* town *at* Kenny’s Pitchen, with Uber Kayak Woman no less, when it burned and we watched it from across the canal.

A couple of Facebook friends commented about those snowpiles and how long the winters were/are up here and how ugly spring can be with all of that crappy snow. Nowadays, I don’t spend long periods of time here in the winter, so it’s all fun and interesting but I remember one April when I was a junior in high school, and I was hanging out the window in my parents’ second floor bedroom looking over deep snow everywhere. It was warm that day and the snow was starting to melt but I was thinking, “when the heck will winter ever end.” Yes, April. And then a Lincoln School friend reminisced about playing marbles on the way to/from school through big mud puddles with dirty old boilerplate ice to make things interesting. Whomp. Time travel! I was never all that good at marbles myself and I don’t remember the rules we played by. I do remember playing marbles, boulders and puries and marbles going into mud puddles and underneath cornices of boilerplate ice, never to be seen again.

Today I walked down onto the south side. I walked south from The Commander’s house and ran like heck across Ashmun and picked my way down Cotey’s Hill and there I was. It was like it used to be. Mostly small houses, some bigger than others, some better maintained than others. Families outside doing things in the 60-degree March weather. No huge mud puddles or ice cornices like there often are at this time of year. This year. I am, uh, meeeee, and I was thinking what will I say if someone asks me what the heck I am doing there? Really, my brain was going hucklety-buck and I was convinced that if anyone asked me anything, like what the heck are you doin’ here, ya ol’ bag, I was gonna say, “I am a time traveler.” Of course, most people totally ignored me. Finally, some middle school age kids *very* tentatively approached me. “Have you seen a dog?” I hadn’t and I told them that and I was sad about it. I was remembering the week when I was six and my loverly dog Tigger was lost. I said that I hoped they found their dog and very sincerely wished them luck. I am a time traveler but I don’t have any dog-finding super powers.

We are all here now and the lasagna is out and settling a bit. Can you go home? What is it like in your old house or neighborhood? When I walked by my childhood house today, on the sidewalk, thinking about where the lilac bushes used to be, I wondered if the folks who live there now felt my quiet footsteps. Sandals in the snow through the ages of time.

One Response to “Time traveling with a lime juice hangover”

  1. Margaret Says:

    60 degrees?? We’re under 50 right now so I’ve put the flannel sheets back on the bed. I’m always “going back” but it’s never the same. My mother-in-law lives in our old house, my childhood home is owned by strangers. My later childhood home is where my parents currently live, but not too long after I moved out they turned my bedroom into a TV room!! I remember being a bit nonplussed about the speed of it.