My Turn: Remembering that last snowball battle

(It was the winter of 1965, and snow had fallen through the night. It was as high as nature would allow, streets indistinguishable from surrounding lawns. Bushes blanketed by snowdrifts swept up and onto homes. Tree branches bowed in silent prayer, roofs creaked under the weight.

School was closed, another gift from the incredible white powder. Detention, homework, quizzes and tests, all deferred. This was the stuff of childhood, when anything was possible.

There were the usual suspects on either side of the street standing upon mounds of snow, taking cover whenever they temporarily ran out of ammunition. The battle had gone on for hours. Snowballs flew across the street, some more accurate than others. The troops were even in number. There were daring raids across the front lines, boys slipping and sliding to get back to their posts on nature’s fort.

The battle would stop for only two things.

One was the occasional car able to make it through the tire-deep snow. We would look to see inside; we had to know whether we could outrun them, were they the sort to give chase, and what they might do if they caught us. We would allow safe passage to a point, then both sides would unleash a fury, snowballs from every direction, blanketing the windshield and concealing our identity. Horrendous, beautiful sounds of snow hitting Detroit-shaped metal.

The second was the battle between one boy and his mother. Dennis wasn’t allowed out because he refused to shovel his driveway. As we played in front of his house, he would climb out his first-floor bedroom window to join us. His mother would catch on and, first, scream for him to get back in the house, then come out and drag him back. He would climb out again. This went on all day.

We wore no watches, so the battle raged until the firehouse's 6 o’clock whistle blew, the signal for us to go home. I usually was the first to leave — dinner was that good. On this day, for some reason, I stayed, chasing down the opposition until no one was left.

The moon was full, lighting up the deserted battlefield on the cloudless night. I looked over the scene with an overflowing of warmth and happiness. This was a truly great day I didn’t want to end.

Slowly I left, the smell of soup and various cooking from surrounding homes washing over me. Starving finally, I picked up the pace. Snow began again as the clouds rolled in. Maybe, just maybe, another snow day tomorrow. I found myself humming.

The next day I awoke to rain, and school was open. It was sloppy and messy, as most of the beautiful snow had melted. Days of rain followed until there was no snow left. There would be no more snow that season — or for the next two years. When it finally did snow, my friends would get mad at me for hitting them with snowballs. They were too old for snowball battles, so I had to give it up. One by one we began to drive, and snow became something to curse.

I tried to hold onto that feeling from that day in 1965. But like the fading of friendships from that day, the memory became like a dim negative of a photograph. I would never again know the simple joy of those hours. Other things brought me joy, of course, but none so simple and pure.

We rarely know when we are doing something for the last time or when people — whom we took for granted, maybe — are leaving our lives forever. When we mourn the loss of such moments or friendship, we often regret that we didn’t make the time. Whatever justification we had then may seem senseless or stupid. Unlike our memories, those moments are gone, like melted snow.

Thomas Fasullo,

Franklin Square