Thursday, December 31, 2009

The Snowman

The Snowman

I was only seven years old on the Christmas morning I first saw the cartoon on television. It was the familiar story of a young boy who built a snowman which came to life and showed him the world. I felt inspired by such a story and being such a young child, it piqued my curiosity. ‘What would happen if I could build such a large snowman, would it come alive, just like the snowman on the television?’ Such fascination filled my mind with pleasure, as I ran through all the fantasies of the little adventures I could have with a living snowman. The places he could take me. The mountains I could see. The marvellous buildings we could explore together. A huge adventure awaited me, and as far as my imagination was concerned, all it would take was a matter of time and snow until I could achieve it. Alas, no snow settled on the ground that year, and it wasn’t until the following year, that my childhood dreams began to be realized. For it was on the afternoon of the Christmas Eve when I was eight years old, I witnessed the whitest Christmas that I’d seen in my life.

I remember sitting on the living room sofa, watching in fascination as each snowflake seemed to materialise in mid-air and float gently down, like a feather to the blanket of white beneath it. I must have sat there for hours, as I watched each flake drift to its target, as a soft, featherlike mass piled on the bleached surface below. First there were just a few patches on ground, but with each cannonade of snow, my heart raced with excitement, as the white carpet became thicker and thicker. When the flurry stopped for a while, my heart felt frozen in suspense, as I waited for the next outbreak from the heavens. Being quite religious at the time, I felt that a real gift was coming from above. I could feel something wonderful happening; each speck of this frosty dust from the sky would breathe life into my snowman. It was due to grant me with the answer to my wishes, what I wanted to be the most memorable experience of my life.

When I saw the snow was several inches thick, I decided it was time start building the body which would form the receptacle for the snowman’s soul. I was only in my pyjamas at the time, and I knew much had to be done, before my dreams could be realized. Although I was young, I realised that no magic was likely to happen, unless I put in some work of my own. Added to which, time was getting short; it was already 2 o’clock in the afternoon, and it was likely to get dark by four. Something was telling me in my mind that if I didn’t finish the snowman by nightfall, then he would never come to life.

I raced upstairs, and without showering or brushing my teeth, found a pair of briefs and some warm socks, adorning them with lack of care about the fact the underwear was inside-out. Lying on my bed was a present from my parents, of which I was very proud; a pair of fleecy trousers which I knew would keep me warm. Inside my wardrobe was also a black and white jumper with thin horizontal stripes, knitted for me by my Grandma last Christmas alongside a matching red hat and scarf.  I didn’t think however that I would be warm enough in my current attire, and so I sneaked downstairs grabbing my favourite warm blanket. I wrapped it around my head and body, as if it was a poncho, and glanced myself up and down in the mirror. I seemed to have obtained a strange druidic appearance, causing me to resemble a small member of a black magic wielding occult. Perhaps in retrospect this image suited my intentions quite well.

I was now ready to embrace the bitter chill of the outdoors. I flung open the kitchen door to the back garden, and felt the cold air against my face, and the pleasant warmth as it trapped itself between the blanket and my skin. The garden was small, with about an acre of grass in the middle, and although the grass was long from not being mowed this winter, not a speck of green could be seen on the white tapestry before me.  The snow was deeper on the lawn than the pavement and I gleefully ran towards to test the thickness. When I was in the centre, I spun around with youthful energy, and collapsed backwards on the snow, arms akimbo. Like a seagull, I then flapped my arms up and down, as to carve a shape in the snow. After about a minute of my arms slicing through the soft powder underneath my body, I stood up to view my masterpiece. I marvelled at the majesty of the imprint of a small angel which I had drawn into the snowy turf. Looking just above the kitchen window, I realized this was placed under the spot which the back-garden floodlight highlighted at night. Perhaps the divine power of an angel underneath coupled with the powerful glow of this light, could breathe a glorious vitality into my new friend to be.

I picked up around a handful of snow, and condensed it, until the delicate texture became solid and dense. Laying the ball on the snow, I rolled it slowly along the ground, allowing the snowball to increase in size, as if it was growing out of the ground itself. As it grew I noticed two things, not only did the ball become heavier and more difficult to manoeuvre but it also became more difficult to steer, and felt often that it was taking on a life of its own. I had to take frequent breaks, as I found myself out of breath and sweating, from driving this large spheroid along the frozen terrain. However, using nearly all my strength, I was able to amass it to a height which almost reached my shoulders. With one last push, I rolled it over to the designated resting place and after a brief rest, started working on the head. This was a smaller ball and so didn’t take as much effort to create. Occasionally however I realized that the snow around me was becoming scarce and I had to negotiate my path along the patio in order to compensate for this. The second ball soon reached the size of a large man’s head, and was ready to be placed. I steered it over to, and with a swift heave, rolled it on top of the body. After hastily condensing the snow around the body, and took a few steps back, in hope that the top ball would remain and the snowman wouldn’t be condemned to headless doom. I felt a relief as the head stayed put, and revelled in the sight of the foundation of the snowman. I felt proud of my work so far, but I knew that the snowman was still missing a few important things. It was time to grant him the gifts of sight, hearing, smell and voice. 

I noticed that the sun was lying low in the sky, and I was fully aware of the pressure of dusk approaching. I rushed into the kitchen, and saw my Grandma was making preparations for dinner. The vegetables had not been prepared yet with about half a dozen carrots lying by the cooking stove, waiting to be peeled. Scanning the room, I also spotted the Christmas pudding, and a bowl of sultanas which weren’t deemed worthy enough to be part of its ingredients. I waited until my Gran’s back was turned, and just as she leaned down towards the oven I stealthily lunged forwards to steal a carrot and a handful of raisins. I concealed these quickly under my blanket and then looked in the cupboard for something more authentic. ‘A-ha, a tube of tomato ketchup,’ I thought, ‘I doubt we’ll be using this tonight.’ A quick scour of the entrance hallway also revealed a warm scarf and a cowboy hat which my father used as fancy dress for his work Christmas party. I stormed outside, determined to beat the sunset, placed the hat on the head and wrapped the scarf around its neck. The sultanas made perfect eyes, and with small amount of effort I forced the carrot into the hardened snow below them to create a long, distinctive nose. The mouth was made by running the tomato ketchup in an arc below the nose. I chuckled to myself. With one sweep of my hand, I’d given my snowman makeup, and transformed him into a snow-woman. I took a small retreat to admire my creation, feeling joyful with the blind faith that tonight she would become alive.

As I stood memorializing the statue, I took note of my creation’s imperfections. Her hat and nose seemed lopsided, and one eye was placed slightly below the other, creating a lack of symmetry in her face. There were dimples and knobbles all over the snow-woman’s body and face, where the snow had been compressed; giving rolling contours along a structure which I’d imagined as more globular. My awe was interrupted by the menacing silhouette of the neighbourhood fox amongst the garden fence. We locked eyes for a few seconds, before I turned my head. There was something deeply foreboding about the presence of this fox. I felt a sense of diffidence towards it, and although I wasn’t sure why at the time, the reasons for this I was soon to discover. I picked up a large scoop of snow and threw it with as much might as I could in the fox’s direction, watching its long shadow dissipate as it jolted into the dim twilight. It was just me and my snow-woman now, and I was going to let nothing else disturb this ritual of appreciation of her. I firmly believed she was soon to gain a spirit; a soul to add animosity to her current corporeal form. I couldn’t wait.

Night fell. I ate dinner with my family and then retired for an early night. Before sleeping I made sure that the floodlight was switched on, to give her a guiding beacon when she entered this world on Christmas morning. I set my alarm for midnight, as I thought that would be the time she was most likely to come alive. My head rested against the soft pillow and I feeling weary from my hard work, a deep sleep overcame myself. In my dreams, I saw a bright light which focused softly on the snow-woman, who was resting there. After a while, she let out an enchanting glow of her own, and arms and legs majestically grew out of her rotund body. The dark sky turned suddenly red, and the intimidating face of a fox approached my vision. It was the same fox that was acutely observing my actions before. I knew his intentions. He was here to prey on the snowman. All of my efforts meant nothing to him other than what he could have for Christmas dinner. The fox was evil, and I could see it in his eyes. But wait! The snow-woman was alive. I could hear the deep, baritone thumping of her feet as he turned her giant body to face the fox.  Inside her dark, black eyes I a glint, as the dull texture of the raisins had been transformed into slate, shiny pearls. In her eyes I could see reflections of the red sky around her and I could sense her rage. She was about to do battle with the fox. I knew she’d win. She was bigger, stronger. The fox was about to be finally defeated and my creation was here to ensure that justice prevailed. But with a strange vivacity, loud noises became clear in my ears. A fox was yapping, and what was that? A cat was screeching? There were no cats in my dream. Another sound entered into the dream, it was the ‘beep-beep-beep-beep’ of my alarm clock. My abdomen forced my upper body upwards. I sat awake in bed, feeling confused and dazed from my dream. What had just happened?

I leapt to the window to discover the twisted reality behind my dreams. It took me a while to focus on the scene, as the snow reflected the bright floodlight beam back towards my window, dazzling my eyes. My mouth dropped aghast at what I saw. I saw the snow-woman’s head which had been severed from the body, and was lying upside down on the ground. My eyes skimmed across to the body, which was in the same place but its base was looking much flatter than when I’d left it. There was a streak of blood across the chest of the body and sitting right on top of it, I saw him. He was glaring right at me, just like in the dream. It was the fox and he had come once again to prey on my creation. My very dreams were being hunted. He preyed on my fantasies of breathing life into her and in effect the childhood innocence, which I held so dear. I felt a deep hurt well up inside my stomach. I hated him. How could he do this to me? I looked around the room and my attention focused on a heavy boot, which looked dangerous enough to hurt the fox. I lifted it and flung it out of the window towards the fox. It was a good throw and hit him on the side of his thorax. He yelped and darted away into the night. I was left alone, crying with my hopes of a Christmas adventure in ruins. The snow-woman was meant to come to life. She was meant to show me the world, the mountains, the valleys, the amazing buildings. A large piece of me had been stolen, and all that remained was emptiness.

I walked downstairs, and heard voices coming from the living room. The door was left ajar and I was able to put my ear to it and push my eye to the opening. I could see the television and a man on the screen, with an incredibly elastic face. I still felt intense despair as I watched the way his lips and wrinkles seemed fold like paper whilst he read some lines from William Blake’s Augeries of Innocence:

“A dog starved at its masters gate
Predicts the ruins of the of the state.
A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare.
A fibre from the brain does tear.”

As I attentively listened, I thought in horror of the poor snow-woman lying there with her severed head. ‘What did she do to deserve this? She’d suffered the same fate as the dog, the horse, the hare; such mistreated creatures. What about the fox, why didn’t he suffer the same fate?’  Such thoughts kept spiralling round and round in my head, offering me no sympathy for my loss. The man’s speech came to an end, and I heard the final words of the poem, spoken with heartfelt passion:

"When we see not through the eye
Which was born in a night to perish in the night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.
God appears, and God is light
To those poor souls who dwell in night,
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day."


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Thirty years have passed since I lived this story, and only now have I decided to write it. I concealed the truth of my story from my children for so long, as I always told them a different story. This was the fabrication of how I built a snow-woman who came to life, just like I remember from my fantasies. However now my children have grown through childhood and are reaching adulthood, I wrote this for them, so they understand the real story. I protected their innocence for so long, which ironically this story has been written to dispel. I do hope that they will remember for life the story that I told them that they were young, and pass it down to their children, and their children and their children after that. Because when people are young, childhood innocence is perhaps the most magical thing they have. One of the last things I’d want to see a man or woman do is to destroy a young one’s dreams, just as the fox did with mine. That would be the death of one of the greatest things the world can give us: the magic of being young enough to find doctrine in the imagination. 

Copyright 2009 Christopher Behrsin

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