When we learned of the historic snowstorm sweeping the Midwest, my husband and I reminisced two epic storms of our youth. One in the 60's that left sky scrapin' snow scapes for energetic pre-teens to tunnel villages and create fantasy igloos in the unmelting mounds while our parents--we lived about 50 miles apart--scratched their responsible heads about how to remove the stuff.

The other memorable storm left us snowed into our cottage in the late '70's, a few years into marriage. Friends came over early, and brought provisions to last thru the blizzard. As the party snacks staled and the snowplow arrived like a loose locomotive, it's brightwhite beacon dusting the dark off the crystal landscape, we stumbled outside. Rubbing our hands to keep them warm, we gazed at the 12 foot drift sailing across our driveway to the roof, the obstacle we were obligated to remove if we wanted to release the car from the garage before the spring thaw.

There are as many frozen adventures to recall as the forty seasons we endured Frosty's folly, but it was with minute melancholy that we humbly watched TV reports of an authentic Winter breathing his blast on our Hoosier homeland.

For ironic relief, I hung four pairs of well worn mittens on the mantle, reminders of glorious childlike glee when icy manna silently falls on predictable people.