When I think back to winters gone by, a picture of my grandparents’ farm in Maple Ridge Township always comes to mind. I’m not sure the snow was so different then, so deep and sparkling, but, as a child, spending precious time on the farm it just seemed to register so.

With autumn winding to a close, I sometimes wish I could experience those unfettered days of my youth.

The farmhouse was located nearly smack in the middle of 180 acres of plowed fields, backed, a long walk away, by a stand of maples we called The Hardwoods. This stand of maples included a multitude of hillocks from the untouched remains of fallen and decayed trees.

Years of leaves which collected among those hills and hollows made walking through the maples difficult. There would be firm higher ground and soft dense duff, a change in footing that often sent us tumbling. There was also a sizeable valley at the edge of The Hardwoods, where, in spring, water flooded the basin and then, once the ground thawed, rushed out all at once, like a plug being pulled in the bathtub.

That stand of hardwoods and the valley beyond was our playground.

In summer, it was the destination for a family walk or a day in which just the children roamed for a bit of private exploration without the adults. We followed the twisting cow path along a bordering fence past rock piles on which we could find all manner of artifacts. Some of the debris included discarded jars of tomatoes and other unrecognizable vegetables that, to this day, I can’t fathom why they were there, and why the jars, at least, were not saved. There were also quarter-inch-thick records from some long-ago Victrola, farm machinery parts, an old baby buggy frame, and the rusted shell of an ancient jalopy.

But, while those slow summer days and rich, colorful autumns were savored like warm chicken soup, it is in winter that the woods had a special mystery.

When huge amounts of snow accumulated in the region, we children used The Hardwoods for wild bouts of sledding. A trip of at least a half-mile was made straight across wind-blown fields, where snows were less deep than our usual roundabout cow path. Following in single file, the children dragged every device for sledding they had at hand: a handmade, two-foot-wide wooden affair with old skis screwed to its underside, an aluminum Flying Saucer someone got as a Christmas gift, a real sleigh with metal runners, and a borrowed toboggan that had seen better days.

The valley was now a dreamscape of huge drifts of a depth that could easily cover a small child standing up after a wild ride clinging to the cousin in front of him and the inevitable spill at the bottom.

The first to go over the edge of a cornice of snow used the toboggan because the snow was too soft to support hard metal runners. The short, roller-coaster ride always ended in a soft, explosive finish in a heap of arms and legs, and red faces covered in frozen fluff. Climbing out of that icy, feather-light pile was hard work, and, by the time we were back to the top of the valley rim, we were sweating in our snowsuits and eating snow clumps off our woolen mittens.

Once we were tired-out and wet, the trudge home was much slower and quieter, a matter of just putting one boot in front of the other.

As we approached the farmhouse, it and outbuildings stood within wave-like crests of drifts several feet from the foundations and several feet high. Between the foundations and the rise of the snow drifts, however, the wind had blown snow clear of the iron-hard ground, and even a few yellowed grass sprigs were visible. My mother once told me those drifts in her childhood topped the fences and an ice crust allowed her to walk over the top.

The farmhouse itself was two stories, sided with clapboards that probably never saw a paint brush and was therefore a muted gray. Entry was through a side door, surrounded on the remaining two sides by more weathered boards and sloping roof to block the wind.

Just inside the door was a room called the Big Kitchen. It may have been used for exactly that back in the day, but now it was a large, unheated space used for storage. There were old chairs and a table, and the very old linoleum floor was worn in places right down to the floorboards.

It was here we took off hats, mittens, scarfs, boots, snow pants, sweaters, and jackets. I always felt so light when the sodden outerwear was removed. We could then enter the main part of the house. Our clothing was slightly damp from our exertions, and a chill quickly began to draw goosebumps on once-overheated skin.

We all trooped through the doorway into the dining room and on through to the living room, where stood a large oil stove. A throw rug was slid across the linoleum from the middle of the room to the edge of the stove. We’d lay on the rug and put painfully cold feet up on the side of the stove. Staring at the ceiling, we’d recount our adventures, and slowly warm and dry, and wait for supper.

The scents of the farmhouse was a mixture of chicken, potatoes, and cigar smoke. Grandpa’s chair stood in the far corner of the living room and a spittoon made out of a coffee can stood next to it. That was not viewed by anyone as bad form. It simply was the way it was.

When dinner was ready, everyone assembled around the round pedestal oak dining table, my cousins, aunts, uncles, parents and grandparents elbow-to-elbow. Quantities of food in unmatched bowls clustered at the table’s center, while around the edge were plates Grandma had collected from the boxes of clothes soap.

After the meal, the children once again were raring to go. We found dry mittens and pulled on still-wet pants and other paraphernalia and dashed out the door.

Winter at night was still, silent and eerie. The yard-light caught a million facets of snow flake crystals and shadows deepened the dips and ridges on the irregular surface that in day looked perfectly smooth. Overhead, the stars were so thick it took concentration to see the main markers of constellations. The twigs of bushes glittered like something only the wealthy should have. Clouds of vapor from our breath hung in the air when we spoke in hushed voices like the sight could pass for church.

No, I’m sure there was much more substance to the days and nights of winter more than 50 years ago, when we took the time to really look, feel and even taste those snows of yesterday.

— Connie Stafford, Alpena