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Image in the Snow
for Lizzie B. Stewart, Boyds Corners School
Boyds Corners, New York 1934 - 1939
by
There really isn't much that makes this morning different from any other
except its colder than usual and about eight inches of fresh snow has
fallen during the night. The morning farm routine—feeding the animals,
milking the cows and putting the cans of milk in the milk-house to be
picked up later in the day—are the same things my grandfather and
dad do every morning. By 7:00 or 7:30 they're back to the house and my
grandmother and mom have the usual big breakfast of pancakes, eggs or
sausage and home-fried potatoes ready for them. By this time both of them
are pretty hungry. They have to get up early every morning before daylight
so they've been working in the barn for a couple hours when they come
back up to the house. After breakfast there's always a lot of jobs to
be done—machinery to be repaired for spring planting, hay and ensilage
to be thrown down from the hay mow and the silo and it, seems to me, we
always have some sick animal down there in the barn. But getting started
with today's work will just have to wait a while because we had an overnight
guest—well, not really a guest because teacher stays with us quite
often—sometimes two or three days at a time when the weather is
bad.
Anyway, you know how it is with older people—they always have a
lot to talk about as they sit around the table and drink coffee. And that's
what they're all doing this morning. Teacher's—that is, Mrs. Stewart's—husband
drove her over last night from their farm about 50 miles away on the other
side of the county because she was afraid she couldn't get here this morning
with all the new snow. Seems like Mrs. Stewart and my folks always talk
about the same things—things that I don't understand very much about
like FDR, the New Deal—whatever that is—and something called
the Townsend Plan and some guy way off they call Hitler. I don't usually
ask questions when they're talking because they don't like to be interrupted
by us boys. I think Mrs. Stewart's husband raises sheep on his farm and
they talk a lot about how many lambs he's got now and the price of wool
and things like that. Then Mrs. Stewart and my grandma usually get to
chatting about all the canning they've done or the quilts and rag rugs
they're making.
All of a sudden Mrs. Stewart notices what time its getting to be. "Boys,
we've got to get on our way to school," she says, getting up and pushing
her chair back in under the big dining room table. Then she walks to the
cold bedroom off the living room to get her coat and the things she'll
need to wear on this cold morning. "Be sure to put on your high boots
today. The snow is quite deep," she says as she pushes open the sticking
bedroom door.
Then my mom and grandma make sure that my brother and I are dressed warm
enough for the mile and a half cold walk to school. Mom wanted me to wear
my corduroy knickers and long argyle socks today because she thinks that,
with my long underwear, I'll be warmer in the wind. I'd rather wear my
bib overalls like usual 'cause the knickers go "zip, zip, zip" every time
I take a step. Doesn't matter—I've got the knickers on and as soon
as I get my high boots on I'll be ready to go.
Mrs. Stewart is standing at the door waiting for me. Gosh, I can hardly
see her face. She has that big coat with the fur collar she often wears
pulled right up around her face and ears and a long scarf tied around
that with one long end hanging down her back. Over her head she has a
large three-cornered bandana tied securely under her chin. I think she'll
stay warm till we get to school.
As my grandma opens the dining room door, the three of us prepare to
face the cold. "Don't forget these," grandma says, handing each of us
our lunch buckets she had sitting there on the corner of the table. Mrs.
Stewart picks up her large, black pail. It has a rounded top so she can
carry a thermos bottle of coffee or tea. She also carries a leather case
with lots of papers and pens and pencils and scissors. She always has
everything I need in there. We step out the door, onto the side "stoop,"
down across the snowy yard and then we're quickly in the road we'll follow
to school. There are no tracks yet in the new snow. Probably the snowplow
will be around before noon so the mailman can get through.
"I'll hurry along," Mrs. Stewart says, pulling away the scarf she now
had placed over her mouth, "so I can get the fire started." As I watch
her start to walk faster and plunge first one foot, then the other in
the untouched, powdery snow, I stop walking and stand silently in the
snow. I simply want to watch her for some reason—the determined
footsteps, the swing of the arms with lunch pail in one hand and briefcase
in the other. I notice the little balls of disturbed snow rolling left
and right with each lifted foot and the rhythmic appearance of her breath
in the frosty, morning air. It is quite a ways down along the pasture
lane before the road crosses the creek bridge. I start to walk but before
I'm barely past the barn, teacher is nearly to the bridge. Her image gradually
appears smaller and smaller to me until it finally disappears out of sight
around the bend in the road. I hurry along now, taking big steps and trying
to walk in her footprints in the snow. Unable to do that for very long,
I think I'll just walk the rest of the way making my own tracks in my
own way. Anyway, that's what she'd tell me to do—just like she doesn't
expect me to keep up with her. That's the way she is. That's the way she
is about everything.
School that day for me started early while standing there by the barn
watching Mrs. Stewart walk the road ahead of me in the snow. I don't remember
arriving at school that day. I assume the room was warm when I arrived
and that the day was filled with learning and laughter like all the others
with her there.
Yet the morning image in the snow remains frozen in my memory. For that
I am indeed grateful.
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