For some reason, I’ve had this story circulating in my head lately. I don’t really know why, but I thought I would share it with you. The story is true. . . unbelievably true.
When I was a little girl, a very, very long time ago (only 2 “very”s, so I’m not as old as dirt), my family moved to Illinois for six month. Something to do with dad and the military, but the “why” is really irrelevant. The “where” is important, though. We were all from Mississippi where it snows maybe once every seven years. Kind of like a plague, and, yes, most Southern adults treat it like one. Kids, of course, are enamored of snow. It is the stuff of which dreams are made.
You can have fights with snow. . . and clobber your baby sister repeatedly with snowballs all in the name of fun. 🙂 (Sorry, sis. Well, no, not really, but it sounded good!)
You can get free days from school with enough snow.
You can make snow-cream instead of ice cream.
And, you can make snowmen.
So, picture this. This little Mississippi girl, just turned 6, with blonde hair and blue/green eyes got to build her first snowman. It was just my height (so it was maybe 3 feet tall). It had arms made from sticks. I don’t remember what we used to make the eyes and smile, but then Daddy did something special. He broke two icicles off of the bottom of his old Dodge car and stuck them in the top of the snowman’s head……Angel’s snowman now had horns. 😀
It may not have been the prettiest or most conventional snowman, but it was perfect to me. It was lumpy, asymmetrical, and lop-sided. . . and it was mine. My very first snowman. I was so proud. If you grew up building snowmen, you can’t imagine just how proud I was. Not only had I never built one before, I knew in my little 6-yr-old mind, that I probably never would build another one. This was a Once-In-A-Lifetime Event!
We smiled, we took pictures, we celebrated. Then we went inside to our neighbor’s and ate popsicles. I don’t know why we ate popsicles in December, but we did. Then we went upstairs to our apartment. I, of course, ran to the window to check on my snowman. IT WAS GONE!!!! “Somebody stole my snowman!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.
“What?” asked my dad.
“No, honey,” said my most reasonable mother. “Some kids probably just came by and knocked it down.”
“Uh-uh! They STOLE it!” Nobody seemed to understand that. My snowman was gone; therefore, someone stole it. It was not broken up into a million pieces. It was not melted. It was GONE. Stolen. Snowman-napped. To say I was mad is like saying Mother Theresa was a “nice lady.” Un. Der. State. Ment.
My parents (reasonable adults dealing with a very UNreasonable child) took me downstairs to show me the snow spread all over the ground that would be the destructive particles left remaining of my once proud accomplishment. Boy were they fooled. No extra snow. There was still a flat and level place where my snowman had been. There were footprints! “See? He WAS STOLEN!!!” I shouted with the self-righteous anger only a 6-yr-old can have. “I TOLD you!”
I forced my father to follow the footprints with instructions to retrieve my snowman. Dutifully, he followed them.
I watched from the upstairs apartment window for him to return with my snowman.
Her returned without him. He said he followed the footprints for 6 blocks and then lost the trail (an Indian tracker my father isn’t! Maybe I should have sent my mother since she has the Cherokee blood. Hmm…….)
We spent 6 months in Illinois. I had my 6th birthday there. And all I can really remember is the day my snowman was stolen.
I hope those thieves enjoyed him. ‘Cause this little Mississippi girl is STILL upset about that.
Yes, I do carry a grudge about some things.