Category: Borealis

Recently, I learned that hurricanes aren’t the only storms that get names. Since 2012, serious winter storms have also been named — but only according to The Weather Channel, and not without significant pushback. (Apparently, they’re “ignoring the meteorological rulebook”.) 

Anyway, I discovered this bit of trivia when Colorado — and the rest of the American West — was pummeled by Winter Storm Xylia, the weekend before Saint Patrick’s Day. 

In terms of winter storms, this one was pretty severe — although, thankfully, we got plenty of heads up, and most people prepared accordingly. When I went to King Soopers the night before the storm was set to arrive, the place was cleared out. It was, coincidentally, exactly a year since I had gone to King’s for my pre-pandemic shopping trip… and the place pretty much looked the same. 

[Note: For the rest of my life, I will commemorate March 12th as Grocery Store Depletion Day.]

The snow fell softly throughout Saturday — a rather lame start to our big snow weekend. Bo and Taylor threw snowballs at each other (and at me), while Aza tried to gnaw off her mittens. 

Sunday, however, was a different story. At one point, the snowfall was about two inches per hour. We shoveled twice in an attempt to keep up, although it hardly seemed worth the effort: either way, Monday morning would suck. 

The heavy snow continued into Sunday night, but Monday dawned with mostly-blue skies. 

Monday also happened to be Taylor’s birthday, so I was on kid duty as he slept in. 

Unfortunately, “kid duty” was not conducive to my ability to remedy the snow situation outside. So, after getting Bo and Aza fed, I flipped on an episode of Little Baby Bum, then went to shovel for twenty-nine minutes.

First things first: the front walk, so that my footprints wouldn’t compact the snow into ice. When I finally made my way to the road, I encountered this scene:

[Note: Wow, that metric makes my herculean task seem so lame. I should have instead said it like this: I had to move six hundred thousand cubic inches of snow — yeah, I’m that tough.] 

Needless to say, I didn’t accomplish all the shoveling while the kids watched Little Baby Bum — although, I made a good start of it. My progress was impeded both by the snow’s abundance and by its weight. It was a March storm, after all. Those tend to produce dense precipitation. 

Instead of hefting all that heavy, wet snow all the way onto our “yard”, I took the lazy route and just piled it on edge of the street, right next to our driveway — but, even the lazy way wasn’t exactly “easy”. As the mound grew, I had to lift the snow higher and strip off more clothing layers. Soon, I was down to a long-sleeve shirt and gloves. 

As I worked, the ever-growing pile tugged at a memory. But, I resolutely shoved it back down. Today was Taylor’s birthday, and I wouldn’t celebrate by dragging him into an all-day project. The snow could just sit there and melt, for all I cared. 

I returned inside to catch the very end of Little Baby Bum. Immediately, Bo turned to me and suggested, “Maybe we can wahf Oh I Guhs Can Way to be King on Mommy’s big TV?” {“Maybe we can watch Oh I Just Can’t Wait to be King…?”}

I scoffed. “No way. You’ve already watched plenty of TV this morning. This was a special occasion because Mommy had to shovel the snow. You certainly don’t get to watch anything else right now.” 

Bo considered for a few seconds. “Um… maybe we can make a fort?” 

“For sure. That’s a much better plan.”

I quickly constructed our “fort”: clear off the table, flip around the chairs, and spread a blanket over the whole thing. Boom — a fort, the lazy mom’s way. Meanwhile, Bo muttered to himself, “Ok, well, maybe we can do dat. Yes! We can do dat. Yay!” — which shows that it really only takes one person to hold a conversation. 

Bo and Aza promptly dumped out a bunch of toys under the table — er, the fort. Since, you know, the best way to celebrate a new construction is to immediately fill it with junk. 

While they were thus occupied, I checked my phone and saw that I had a text from my mother — so I called her to chat. After we swapped our shoveling war stories, she said, “Hey, so Grandma’s wondering if you’re gonna make another snow dragon.” 

And there it was — the memory I had tried to tamp down. 

About sixteen years ago, Colorado had another springtime snowstorm very similar to this one: a period of dense snowfall, followed by dazzling sunshine and arduous shoveling. (Back in the day, I used to help my mother shovel — but then I moved out, and now neither of us gets help.

Ok, ok… the husbands occasionally help.) 

Anyway, the snow that day was incredibly dense — the perfect packing snow. We piled much of it in the front yard, and then at some point, my mother and I decided to make a snow rendition of Sapphira from Eragon. 

The idea was undoubtedly mine, but the effort was mostly my mother’s. My puny nine-year-old arms were good for little more than sculpting neck spikes. I can’t remember who thought of spritzing the snow with diluted food coloring, but the effect was quite striking. 

We got compliments from the entire neighborhood, and the above picture even made it onto the local news. However, I also ended up with a severe sunburn for my tenth birthday, so that part was less good. In short, I have mixed feelings about that azure snow lizard.

But here we were, years later, and the dragon-making opportunity was lost on neither my mother nor my grandmother. 

“Ughhhhhhh,” I groaned. “It’s sooooo much work. And you’re not even here to do it for me.” 

“It’s totally up to you,” my mother conceded. “I think people are just thinking that, if you were going to do it, today would be the day.”

I looked over at my son and daughter, who had emptied the entirety of their toy cabinet beneath the table. “Well, I’m sure the kids would love it.” Then, glancing down the hall, I concluded, “Hey, I gotta let you go. Taylor’s finally up.” 

“Wow, must be nice!” my mother laughed. 

Indeed. It must be. 

---

To my surprise, my husband was on board with wasting his birthday to build a snow dragon. He even agreed to watch the kids so I could finish shoveling those dozen cubic yards of snow. 

Once I had cleared the majority of our driveway, I came back inside to help prep the kids. It was cold, but not too cold, and it was incredibly sunny. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find Aza’s sunglasses, so she had to make do with a fluffy hood. I also learned from my past mistakes and slathered everyone up with sunscreen. 

Indeed, the children did like the snow dragon — or, at least, the start of it. Apparently, it didn’t yet read “snow dragon”, because both of them treated it like a slide. To aid their fun, Taylor kicked stairs into what would become the dragon’s chest. 

“Great. That’s exactly what this monstrosity needs,” I muttered. 

Not surprisingly, we couldn’t get very far while the kids were outside. Plus, they got cold and wet from all the melting snow — so, in short, our work time was limited. 

Back inside, Taylor made the kids “feh-fuh milk” {“special milk” — steamed milk with honey and cinnamon}, and then we all cuddled up on the couch to watch I Just Can’t Wait to be King. (Taylor caved to Bo’s repeated requests.) After that, we read books and played games until nap time, which approached at a snail’s pace. 

Every time I glanced out the window, I saw a passerby taking advantage of the sunny day. Most glanced curiously at our work-in-progress, which showed obvious signs of being something but no obvious signs of being a dragon. At this point, we’d have to either completely finish or completely demolish the snow creature.

Finally, the kids were in bed, and Taylor and I were able to focus single-mindedly on our sculpture. He [finally!] took over the shoveling, while I started crafting that all-important neck and head. 

Now, here’s the problem: a dragon’s head (and most other heads) have some overhang to them. That structural element requires snow with enough cohesion to overcome gravity — that, and very careful construction. 

The head started out well enough. I got the neck thin and arched, and angled the dragon’s face downward (as seen on the original cover of Eragon). When Stacia and her husband walked by, I was proud to show off our artistic endeavor. 

And then I went to add the eyes. I pressed a rock into the face — and alas, I pressed a little too hard. The head came off in my hands, and no amount of force would make it reattach correctly. When our neighbors returned from their short walk, Stacia clucked, “Aw, and it was looking so good!” 

I was near tears. We were halfway through nap time, and most of my work was now a slush puddle at my feet. I tried several times to stick large chunks of snow to the neck stump, but the pieces simply would not cohere. 

Eventually, Taylor took pity on me. (I think he was softened by my tears, which had finally spilled over.) “Babe,” he said. “You’re trying to take a shortcut, but this part has to be built a little at a time. Otherwise, it won’t have the internal structure to withstand having an overhang shaved out.” 

And with that, he set about reconstructing the neck, one handful of snow at a time. 

I sighed in resignation. “Yeah, ok. How can I help?”

Taylor cocked an eyebrow. “You wanna get me some more snow?”

So that’s how we remade the dragon’s neck and head — I shoveled in fresh snow, and Taylor methodically layered it on. 

We worked mostly in silence — because, you know, it’s Taylor. But as we worked, I considered what he had said about trying to take a shortcut. Of course, he was talking about snow, but the same truth applies to relationships. 

This was his seventh birthday that we’ve spent together, and it shows. The first year, we dressed up super fancy and went out to dinner — partly for his birthday, and partly to celebrate our engagement a week prior. But, I wore a dress that was too tight, so I was miserable the whole dinner. Oh, and the hostess asked us if we were going to prom, so… there was that. Either way, it feels very kid-ish, now.

This year, we celebrated very differently. Sans-makeup, sans-dress — sweaty, and tired, and so, so much happier. 

There’s a depth of structure and cohesion between us that can’t be forged by anything but time. Of course, we’re very compatible — i.e. we’re starting out with the “right snow”. But the actual construction can’t be shortcut. It’s been built day by day, handful by handful — just like the snow dragon’s neck. 

Thankfully, dragon construction went faster than relational construction. Before long, there it was: a real, fake dragon. 

“You wanna color it?” I asked. 

Taylor: <grunts in disapproval> “I like it white. Plus, spraying anything on it will damage the structure of the snow.” — which, admittedly, is true. 

I went to get the kids up while Taylor finished the last details — and then, about twenty minutes later, it was time for the big reveal. Bo walked outside and examined the dragon. “A gah-gon,” he observed solemnly. 

“Aaaaaand,” Taylor prompted. “It’s also a… slide!” 

And so it was. —sigh— That’s what happens when you do art with an engineer. It always ends up with some incredibly practical feature.

With Taylor involved, the final product wasn’t quite what I had expected… but in the end, it was even better.