Snowballing....

True Story

My parents bought their first house when I was five years old. We moved from an apartment in Poughkeepsie, New York to a house in another part of Poughkeepsie, right near Vassar College. It was new construction. My parents always loved new construction.

Each lot was about a quarter of an acre, and you were not permitted to put up a fence. So, our yard was adjacent to that of the Ko family, the Lucas family, and the Williams family. The Lucas boys were older. They were generally obnoxious, but they had no interest in our family. Cindy Williams babysat for us until she had a paralyzing motorcycle accident. It was devastating. I remember her as someone who would always play PlayDoh with me and was always smiling. After seeing what happened to her, I’d never get on a motorcycle. The Ko family had two kids. Jenny and Andrew. Jenny was two years older than me and Andrew was a year younger than me. My most vivid recollection of Andrew was that of him vomiting. On our way to see Escape from Witch Mountain, we stopped at Burger King. Andrew stuffed himself with pickles and vomited on the way out. I never touched a pickle after that.

But I diverge.

Growing up in Poughkeepsie, we’d get hit with significant snowstorms pretty regularly between November and February. A foot or two of snow was de rigueur. I can’t recall a year that we didn’t use up our snow days.

I loved the snow. Pretty, untouched; it didn’t bring the darkness of rain. I also had a strange obsession with building a snow fort, an igloo, in my backyard. I begged my parents to get me one of those snow brick makers. Looking back, I think I wanted to hide in there with a book. I was thrilled when we were covered with 20 inches of snow. No school, and a full day to build my secret space.

I vividly recall the last time I attempted to build a snow fort in that backyard.

I was eight years old and just finished helping my parents shovel our driveway. After spending some time inside gulping down hot chocolate, I grabbed my snow brick maker and headed to my backyard.

A bunch of neighborhood boys were in one of the adjacent yards having what seemed to be an innocent snowball fight. I laughed as a passed them, but I was neither invited nor did I have any desire to engage with them. I moved to the far side of my lawn and started collecting my bricks.

I had a solid three rows built when three of these kids came onto our lawn and started pelting my fort – and then me – with snowballs. “Stop. Get off my property!” I screamed. I remember being quite territorial about property lines back then.

They seemed to back off, and I went back to work. Only for them to gather other kids and come at me, unprovoked, in a more intense manner. After screaming once again for them to stop, I grabbed my brick builder and started to head inside. I didn’t pick up a snowball to throw back at them. I didn’t laugh or try to engage in a positive manner. I screamed for them to stop throwing snowballs at me. I didn’t want to be part of their snowball fight.

They did not listen. They followed me, continuing to hit me with snowballs. As I turned the corner onto my driveway, a snowball with a rock inside it hit me near my left eye. Blood instantly started pouring down my face. I remember a quick and intense feeling of shock and a longer lasting ache. Less than one more inch, and I could have been blinded by the ball.

Inside, after bandaging and putting ice on my face, my parents called the neighborhood parents whose kids were involved. Some were unresponsive. Others were unkind. My parents got a lot of “kids will be kids,” which taught me that the apples don’t fall far from their trees. It also taught me that not everyone is equipped to raise human beings – a lesson that was re-taught to me later in life.

While we tossed around the idea of calling the police, my parents felt they’d get nowhere. When the snow thawed, they hired a surveyor to plot out our property lines. They couldn’t put up a fence, but they planted large spruce trees along our property line - clearly delineating property lines and blocking off our property from unneighborly neighbors.

Playing in the snow is great fun. Engaging in a snowball fight can be frivolous and filled with laughter if you choose to participate. But when someone isn’t interested in playing, when they say no to the snowball fight, hitting them with snowballs is an attack. It’s a violation of personal space, if not anything more dangerous. And it’s not funny or frivolous to hurt other people – not kids, not cops.

If you enjoyed my short story, please check out my children’s books - Shipwrecked on Fudgepop Island and Only Pizza.