Celebrating a 'polar vortex' of my own

I am hopeful our temperatures will rise just enough this weekend so that I might take Declan sledding at Kelley Park without freezing one of my favorite fingers or toes off. Declan is approaching the age I was at when the majority of my winters were spent primarily outside, building snow forts in the front yard or sledding down the hill at the end of the block.

My mother never had to tell me twice to go outside and play; if you were in the house, there was a very good chance she put you to work.

One particularly enjoyable winter in North Dakota a blizzard hit and brought with it more than six feet of snow. The entire town was basically shutdown to adult life for a little over a week, while the wintery world of snow tunnels and elaborate ice forts exploded for us children.

Citizens who owned snowmobiles provided their contact information to the local radio stations and offered transport to and from the grocery store for those in need. Our snow sleds quickly became a grocery shopping necessity.

There were no distinguishable property lines, sidewalks and streets were hidden under the massive snowfall and I remember thinking how much better our neighborhood looked, blanketed in unifying white.

While the adults worried about trivial items such as food and heat, we children spent our days connecting our homes via an elaborate series of tunnels and snow packed walls, preparing for what we imagined would culminate in a grand snowball fight.

As the snow melted in the days to come, life slowly returned to normal. Towards the end of our snow days I remember being tasked with picking up the "dog stuff" from our backyard. After shoveling a few scoops into a paper sack, I calculated that it required roughly half a swing less to bury the dog droppings in snow, than it did to scoop them into my sack.

I began marching from one "yellow snow zone" to another in our yard, strategically spreading snow until all evidence was hidden.

I was startled by my mother's voice, yelling from the kitchen window.

"It takes just as much effort to bury it as it does to pick it up!" her voice ringing clearly through my snow cap and scarf.

"No, it doesn't," I whispered to myself, as I continued with my task. I shifted my approach slightly and attempted to hide the fact that I was burying some of the dog stuff, while picking up one scoop to every two I covered.

Eventually my task was complete, one way or another, and all visible signs of our dog were gone from the yard.

I made my way into our covered entry and knocked on the door leading to our kitchen, not wanting to remove my snow gear, but knowing I needed my mother's blessing before my task was officially complete.

I hoped she would consent and my afternoon of tunnel building and sledding could begin, but was uncertain how irritated she was with my bury tactics.

A few moments later my mother appeared at the door.

"You realize when the snow melts your going to have to pick everything you buried up," my mom quickly chimed as she looked down at her bundled up son. It quickly became obvious to her, based on the look on my face, that I had not thought of that detail.

After a few moments of listening to me unsuccessfully attempt to mutter a response, she simply grinned and shook her head.

"Go play, but be back in time for dinner!" she said, as I matched her grin and quickly bolted out the front door.

My mother was a stickler for the rules and not one to let us cut corners on our chores, so I was bit surprised by her apparent leniency. Maybe she felt there was a better lesson about procrastination to be learned in the coming weeks, after the snow melted, or maybe she just wanted me to enjoy what remained of the heavy snowfall.

Either way, I was grateful at the time and have looked back on the memory fondly ever since.

Last week when the headlines began to break about a melodramatic "polar vortex" hitting the midwest, my mother and I shared a laugh and reminisced about the blizzard we experienced in North Dakota, back in the early 1980s.

"Are we going to get a bad storm?" Declan asked, with a touch of worry in his voice after overhearing our conversation.

"Don't worry buddy," I smiled in response, "it will all be just fine."