AI Image: Snow falling in pine forest. 

Secrets of the Snow Spirits 

The Nordic cross-country ski club made a winter pilgrimage to the Adirondacks, finding solace in the snow. Every year, they escaped to worship nature’s snowy beauty.     

    But the snow spirits had cast a curse upon the region. The surrounding mountains, valleys, and forests were starved of snow. Fewer trails boasted a snow base deep enough to bury the jutting roots and hide the brown patches.

    The Nordics shared memories of swishing through the hard-packed snow glistening in the sunshine. They longed to hear the crunch, crunch of the snow again. The youngest among them shivered, imagining the bracing, frigid air welcoming them.

    Despite the bleak, sporadic snow forecast, the Nordics continued their traditional journey north. As was their custom, each skier brought gifts to honor the snow spirits. Presents including a rare poem written by Jack Frost, lush green velvet cloaks, a silver flask of aged whiskey, and an ice-blue sapphire tiara. They hoped these treasures, so rich and rare, would impress the spirits.

    Still, not a single snowflake fell.   

    Disappointed, the skiers shunned the spirits and instead put their faith in superstitions to bring snow. The younger snow spirits giggled as they watched each person place a spoon under the bed pillow. 

    But the elder spirits lashed out, unamused. “It’s absurd. Humans also believe wearing their pajamas to bed inside out will make it snow … or backwards and inside out.”

    The Nordics decided they must work together to repair their relationship with the divine deities. If they failed, they feared the snow drought curse would last forever.

    How could they show the spirits how much they loved a snowy winter wonderland?

    A thank-you party!

    As the spirits watched from above, each Nordic presented their gift. The club’s ski instructor recited his poem about snowflakes. Each stanza sang with the same praise he shared with skiers under his tutelage.

    Next, the musician played a bold, bright melody on his flugelhorn. He had mastered the fast tempo and performed fearlessly with speed and grace, just as he did while skate-skiing.

    The humble llama farmer knitted fuzzy honey-colored scarves from spun wool. She wove warmth and comfort into the scarves, wrapping the spirits in her loving touch and kind words.

    In the spirit of warming the icy hearts of the spirits, others chopped a cord of wood and built a roaring fire ablaze in blue and orange. The wood crackled and popped. The ski-house sommelier gave all a generous pour of vintage homemade vino to fete the spirits. Her heartfelt toast was as lively and robust as the wine itself.

    The Nordic leader who loved to cook served up an Italian feast. He sacrificed his time on the trails to cook for his friends and the spirits. Every course included his signature ingredient of fresh, sweet garlic. Chopped garlic topped the bruschetta. Roasted bulbs drenched in olive oil spread on crusty bread. Tomato garlic sauce served over a swirl of steaming pasta. The sweet aroma of garlic lingered and wafted into the woods, making for sweet dreams. 

    All slept well after the dinner and festivities, and they dreamed of waking up to a winter wonderland. The next morning, their dreams had come true. Rejoice!

The sky blushed pink-orange, and the land beamed with six inches of snow.

     Tree branches wore a brand-new winter coat. Birdhouses donned fluffy top hats. Paw prints zig-zagged across the landscape in this wildlife walkway. The woodland welcome committee had already arrived—a drilling woodpecker, a screeching hawk, and a jeering blue jay. 

    The Nordics ventured into the endless winter beauty. Every kilometer of trail beckoned them. They traversed the hills together before heading in different directions. Curious skiers stopped to study the terrain, animal tracks, and tree bark. While some raced across the frozen pond, others circled around it. A few shed their skis and slip-slid-walked across the solid ice.

    The Nordics never worried about snow droughts, for the Snow Spirits rewarded those who shared their talents. Maybe, the snow spirits loved garlic too. 

Did you know George Orwell was a pseudonym?

Orwell’s real name was Eric Blair. I picked up this literary fact while hopscotch-reading through an anthology of essays.¹   

 Last week’s revelation about one of my favorite authors surprised me. It also piqued my curiosity. Why did Blair use a pen name?² 

I called my mother, who taught English for many years, to share the news while secretly hoping this was news to her too. Turns out she didn’t know, but nor was she surprised. I also learned she didn’t teach Orwell’s work.   

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A fiercely loved paperback of George Orwell’s 1984 has a permanent home in the handmade pine bookshelf closest to my bed. It’s hard for me to read because of its physical state, not mine. Tiny typeface on dog-eared yellow pages. Plus, it smells musty and old, unlike the other crisper, younger books keeping it company. I imagine this edition has been with me since my high school days.    

Rarely do I reread books. However, 1984 has been the exception. I have returned to this classic, first assigned in school. My sense is that high school teachers dissected the meaning of the author’s satirical work, rather than the author.  

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Perhaps geography plays a role too when teaching literature. As a proud Missourian, I know that Mark Twain was Samuel L. Clemens’ pen name. It’s knowledge that I suspect they teach in school, but I believe it’s buried in the soil, or that it floats down the Mississippi River. The Mississippi River, a virtual character, in Twain’s work.

How did Clemens pick his pen name? Clemens claimed that his nom de plume was inspired by river boatmen. The boatmen called out Mark Twain, shorthand for two fathoms, helping navigate their craft. My mother also confirmed this legend. However, I found another story explaining that Clemens earned the nickname from ordering his usual drink, Mark Twain, which meant two shots of whiskey.  

Pick your story. How about another one? Twain was born on the same day Hally’s Comet shone in the sky in 1835 and died, as he predicted, when the comet appeared again in 1910.  

“Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn’t,” as quoted by Twain’s own character Pudd’nhead Wilson.

As a writer, I plan to take more care to learn and remember authors’ names and their life stories beyond what’s on the page.

^{1            I was reading Orwell’s essay “Such, Such were the Joys,” in The Art of the Personal Essay An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present.}   

^{2            Why did Eric Blair choose the name Orwell? Curious readers, I will write another blog on writers and their pen names.}  

What Can we Learn from Strangers? 

My mother and I settled into a shuttle hired to take us to a family dinner. Mom is comfortable in the back while I’m tucked into the passenger side that’s too close to the dash, even for a short-legged person like me. But it was a 15-minute trip and not worth adjusting the seat.

Our conversation with our driver started on cruise control, with the ordinary openers: How are you today? Where are you going? Where are you from? 

 We meandered through topics, and the effect was like approaching a cautionary yellow light where one relies on instinct: speed up or slow down.    

It started with my telling our affable driver that I was from Philadelphia visiting family in Columbia, Missouri, over the holidays.

“Philadelphia? They had a garbage workers’ strike this summer, right?” he said.

Did I want to talk trash? No, but I had empathy for the city workers and their families.

“It was awful,” I said, shaking my head as I imagined the stench in the July heat. I lived outside the city limits, far away from the smelly situation. However, I had friends who lived in the city who worried about the strike, especially after hauling their garbage to pickup sites with mounting piles.

Our driver, a man who probably juggled several jobs, sided with the union, believing Philadelphia’s mayor should have paid the workers, not let them go on strike. The strike lasted eight long days.

Philly is a union town. Unions thrive in the City of Brotherly Love. Last summer, the city’s Union 33, comprised of about 9,000 workers, went on strike before Independence Day, when tourists outnumber cheesesteaks. Besides sanitation workers, Union 33 members also include custodians, security guards, and others who work in the public library system, which meant many libraries, which serve as cooling centers in the summer, were closed. 

Closed due to staffing. Closed because of safety concerns. Closed in solidarity. (Because the librarians who belong to another union lent their support to their co-workers.)

We developed a rapport and continued talking. I learned our driver wasn’t a native Midwesterner. He grew up in North Carolina, far from the coast. He longed to visit the East Coast, see the Atlantic Ocean—from the shore, not a boat, thank you. Yes, he also wanted to see Philadelphia.

Did I recite the region’s historic sites, naming the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, and Valley Forge? Yes. Did I kick off bragging about the Eagles? No, that’s too serious. He wasn’t wearing a Chiefs hat, but why remind him of the bitter taste of defeat? Did I remember to mention the popular shows “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” or “Abbott Elementary”? Yes, of course. Or pick an easy subject to chew on, like our famous food scene? We ran out of time.   

Without hesitating, he says he’d like to see the Rocky statue rather than the Liberty Bell. He’s not alone in his fandom. Rocky draws hordes of tourists who run up the art museum’s seventy-two steps like the character Rocky.  

Meanwhile, we were halfway to my brother’s house. It’s partly sunny with temperatures in the upper 60s. It’s the Friday after Christmas, and I assumed from the sparse traffic that the transport business had a light week.  

The transport business was not slow despite the holiday week, he said, explaining he drove dialysis patients to their appointments on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. These treatments are vital for those suffering from kidney failure or diagnosed with kidney disease.

“I admire their positive attitude,” he said, adding that they gave him inspiration.

Our silence suggested we agreed our worries were few and small in comparison. I stared out the window, sad but grateful. Gratitude is appreciating what we have in the present tense.

Over two million people worldwide treat kidney disease with dialysis or a kidney transplant, according to the Cleveland Clinic’s website. A staggering number.  

But I had met a stranger who drove a shuttle delivering compassion along with a ride.   

 

What happens when you talk, really talk with Strangers?

Although my casual exchanges with librarians, waiters, hotel receptionists, or museum staff, shuttle drivers, may feel random, I believe otherwise. Every conversation opens a door. Invites reflection. Raises a question. 

Bob the librarian told me he liked my I still read books button when I approached him for a favor. “Could you watch my box of books while I pull my car around to load up?” I asked.

Why guard a box of books in a library? My box contained three-volume sets of new, expensive encyclopedias, which were my responsibility to return to the bookstore. He agreed. I lugged the sagging box from the meeting room to the circulation desk.   

“Watch!” he called, pointing to the box, whose bottom had come apart without me realizing it. He looked for a sturdier box, and when he didn’t find one, offered to carry the books for me.

We talked as he followed me to my car parked in the back lot. He carried the heavy box with a straight back and a smile. Before the library, Bob considered himself the consummate businessman—he loved the energy that came from making deals. He spent long lunches closing deals, signing contracts, and celebrating with drinks. He called himself a functioning alcoholic — someone who manages working, parenting, and living their life without showing stereotypical outward signs of addiction.

It’s like a game of hide and seek that goes on too long when finally, the one hiding shows themselves and end the game. Or the seeker gives up searching and calls, “Olley, Olley, in free,” declaring a truce or a new round.

I listened and then shared a family story—with a stranger. A first for me. I stood there, in my memory.

He said, “I can tell you’re a worrier.”

I can confirm I know how to worry. But I strive to follow the Serenity Prayer — accepting the things I cannot change, having the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Today, Bob’s a recovering alcoholic. He told me his family checks on him, especially concerned after relaying bad news. “I don’t want a drink after hearing sad news. I crave a drink after hearing good news,” he explained.   

We shook hands. He walked back to the library, his refuge. As I drove home, I knew I’d walked through another door of understanding.  

(The librarian's name was changed at the writer's discretion.)