I’ve always felt that, apart from birthdays, there were two clear ways to mark the point of becoming an adult.
The first is when you stop being excited at receiving post. When you’re young it’s all “Ooh, a letter! For me? Is it a gift?” Once you pass a certain age, it’s just “Great, another bill.”
The second is when you stop feeling excitement at a forecast of snow.
No, I don’t want to build a snowman. No, I don’t want to throw snowballs at people (a very odd thing to do, when you think about it. Do we go to the beach and throw sand balls at each other?) I want to stay inside with an inexhaustible supply of hot chocolate and wait until the last speck of white has vanished from the ground. I have never, ever understood people who voluntarily go off on skiing holidays. Why do they hate warmth and comfort?
The JC doesn’t provide weather forecasts, but I’ve often thought it should. For example, instead of “Tuesday — rain”, it should say “Tuesday — have you taken your waterproof coat? The one with the hood? You know your mother worries.”
We had an easy December, surprisingly warm, in fact. But growing up in Britain has taught me that a snow-free December is just preparing you for a bitter January and February. The sort of weather that, in my fictional JC forecast, would be heralded with: “Oy, such cold! You don’t want to know.”
In terms of our history, snow is, of course, mentioned in Tanach, the compendium of the Torah, Prophets and Writings, usually as a simile, and most famously in the book of the prophet Yeshayahu (Isaiah).
God tells the people of Israel that, if they repent, the slate will be wiped clean. “If your sins prove to be like crimson, they will become white as snow”, says the verse.
The Lord must have been talking about a different type of snow. Over here, snow remains white for perhaps half a day. Then it hardens and becomes a grimy, grey form of sludgy ice, hazardous to human and automobile alike. A simple five -minute walk to the shops becomes a perambulation of peril. A casual Shabbat stroll to shul suddenly takes on aspects of the Shackleton Expedition and needs careful preparation.
There’s the coat — in my case, one bought years ago for a winter trip with World Jewish Relief to Moldova, which has more than earned its keep since. The balaclava — an item of clothing named after a battle which included The Charge of the Light Brigade is not exactly comforting. The boots — not shoes, you won’t last 30 seconds in shoes — either hiking boots or full-on Wellingtons, depending on the situation. The gloves — this is my first year wearing a wedding ring, and I’m assuming it goes under the glove rather than over. The lange gatkes. Until the age of 10 I just assumed “langegatkes” was an obscure English word, rather than the Yiddish equivalent of “long johns”. Finally, when you’re kitted out in so many layers that you look like Michelin Man, you’re ready to step outside — whereupon, despite the bitterly cold weather, you begin to cook inside your outfit.
In modern Israel, they have the right idea regarding snow. This is a country that weathers regular rocket attacks with grim determination (the phrase “keep calm and carry on” applies far more to them these days than it does to Britain). But there, just a rumour of a snow forecast, and the entire country shuts down. The buses head back to their depots, the supermarkets fill with people buying supplies and then everyone effectively goes into hibernation and waits for the natural nightmare to end. Terrorism is one thing, the country seems to be saying. That has to be fought, and one of the ways of fighting it is to lead one’s life with as little disruption as possible to the regular routine. But meteorological threats? Only a complete nudnik would try and fight the weather.
Britain, bless its heart, tries. You might see the occasional gritting machine out and about in advance of a snow warning. But for the most part, we are, every single time heavy snow falls, left up the creek with no paddle — not that a paddle would help, given the water is frozen over.
The truth is, despite all my crotchety grumbling now, I hope that in a few year’s time I’ll be out there in the snow, freezing my tuches off, building snowmen, having snowballs thrown at me (though still drinking hot chocolate). Because if all goes well, please God, I’ll have children — and I’m not going deny them the opportunity to experience snow just because I hate it. Let them experience the snow for themselves and then come to loathe it, just as I did.There still won’t be any skiing holidays, though. That would be an icy ridge too far.
