Every time I walk in the snow, I remember going to Alaska.
Not literal Alaska. ”Going to Alaska” was the game we played in elementary school when there was snow on the ground. The game was walking slowly around the playground and surrounding fields, occasionally consulting a map, and discussing our situation as we went to Alaska.
Then I treasured friends who would participate in my nonsense. Now, as our annual Mardi Gras party approaches, I treasure friends who participate in my nonsense. Who when I said, “How about my dining room is a pirate ship?” My dining room is now a pirate ship.
The nonsense is critical.
I drew maps of where we would find various things. A task of childhood is to focus on that journey narrative, with the support of Laura Ingalls Wilder and the Boxcar Children. I also enjoyed making maps of the woods behind my grandparent’s house, which was in the wild uncharted territory of New Jersey.
Our week has been choppy. I feared a full week of school, in January, but we ended up having a Monday and a Thursday. Monday we jumped back in. Thursday we tested our teachers because we knew they’d been out of practice. Friday the school district waited until 6:30 AM to cancel school. My pathological tardiness paid off. I was still in my jammies at home.
Going to Alaska is about walking slowly. If you go slowly enough, you can walk almost anywhere, in almost any weather.
Going to Alaska is about only looking down, focusing on your feet.
I walk like a penguin who is much shorter than I am.
I strapped on a backpack that added to my weight, my snow crunch factor, and my padding, should I fall back.
I stopped once as the wind blew so hard it physically moved me.
I walked 0.4 miles to the nearest proper espresso machine in public use.
The sidewalks of Armour Boulevard, the main street I live off of, have been treated in various ways. There are a couple of completely clear patches (way to go, Methodist church!). And some ice fields, mostly avoided by taking the grass patch between the sidewalk and the street. I don’t like to be cold, but I do like the safe and satisfying crunch that lets you know you have penetrated the crust of the snow, and your step is safe and sound.
About halfway there, I wondered if the place would be open. Oh I would be sad if it were not. As I got closer, I squinted hard at the dark windows. The windows betrayed nothing. Finally, crossing the last street, I saw someone come out.
Tomorrow we assemble a miniature London in my front yard to greet party guests. I have two pineapples at home, the pirate ship I mentioned, a tiki fever dream, a box of wine, huge paintings of fields of stars in their positions the day my sister was born.
Today I read my Christmas books, calm the voice in me that says, no one will come to the party, as well as the voice that says, too many people will come.
Americans don’t rest enough. Not nearly enough. A colleague and I were recently musing about how much better we are at teaching when we are not carrying anywhere near the usual load for an American public school teacher. How patient! How clever the lessons! How rich the feedback.
Winter can help.
I’ve had a fraught relationship with him. But winter can help. We need to get shut down sometimes. We need to go to Alaska.
Going On 