In the 1950s Missouri schools didn't close because of snow, and when it did snow, those of us who usually walked to school put on our rubber boots and walked in it--uphill both ways, of course. I remember one day walking past a thigh-high drift of snow and deciding to test its actual depth by plunging one booted foot into the drift. Unfortunately, when I pulled my leg out, the snow held on to the boot, and the boot held on to both my shoe and sock. To reach the buried boot I had to stick my arm down into the drift and feel around with my mittened hand, which meant leaning far enough forward that my chin was in the snow. At the same time I had to balance on one leg to keep the other, barefooted one as high and dry as possible. You might think this would have ended my curiosity about snow, but it didn't.
Following one winter storm, I set out from home mid-afternoon to walk about eight blocks to a friend's birthday party. The sidewalk, which was broken in several places, had a thick coating of ice over it. Several inches of snow on the ground had leveled out the appearance of the sidewalk so that the broken places weren't obvious, and each time I happened to step on one of those tilted pieces of concrete, I slipped, tossing the cheerfully wrapped present into the air as I fell. Falling on concrete hurt, even if it was covered by fluffy snow. After several hard falls, I started to cry. I arrived at the party with tears frozen on my face, a scraped knee inside my leggings, and the most bedraggled gift I've ever personally delivered. Happy birthday, my derriere.
One year it snowed on Halloween night, but the big, wet flakes didn't stop us from trick-or-treating. My little sister was about three or four at the time and low to the ground. As the snow fell and piled higher and higher, it eventually reached her low-hanging, brown-paper Halloween bag, gradually wetting and weakening it until all her candy fell through the bottom and sank into the snow. My sister sobbed, and Mother walked us straight home after that. I didn't make a habit of empathizing with my sister in those days, but even my own hard heart could relate to the trauma of losing candy, so as soon as we got home, I willingly divided my candy and gave Judy half.
Okay, all the best stuff probably stayed in my half, but still...
Back to that curiosity thing: Walking home from school one afternoon, swinging my book bag and happy that the sun was out for a change, I noticed a patch of yellow snow near a bush in a neighbor's yard. I'd seen those yellow places from time to time but hadn't given the matter much thought until that very moment. We made snow ice cream all the time that winter and must have made some in the recent past, because my first thought was not, as you might expect, why is the snow yellow? It was what does yellow snow taste like?
I was happy to report to my family that evening that yellow snow tasted a little bit like pineapple. And not so happy after they explained the reason for the yellow snow. Today, sixty-some-odd years later, I'm glad to be able to tell you that yellow snow won't kill you.