The ritual began with the long underwear. It was always white or an off-white color that had seen too many loads of laundry, and it was alwa
We were just stiff blue cylinders in the drifts |
Then came the heavy wool sweater. Mine was a navy blue thing that my aunt had knitted, and the collar felt like it was made of dry pine needles. By the time that was on, I already felt twice as wide… |
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News for the America we remember |
The ritual began with the long underwear. It was always white or an off-white color that had seen too many loads of laundry, and it was always tight in the wrong places. The cotton felt like sandpaper against your skin until your body heat finally softened it up. My mother would stand me in the center of the kitchen and pull the socks up over the bottom of the long johns to make sure there was no gap for the cold to get in. That was the first layer. |
Then came the heavy wool sweater. Mine was a navy blue thing that my aunt had knitted, and the collar felt like it was made of dry pine needles. By the time that was on, I already felt twice as wide as I actually was. I would stand there with my arms slightly out, waiting for the main event. |
The snowsuit was a massive piece of engineering made of heavy navy blue nylon. It had a smell of basement and old rubber. My mother would hold it open like a trap, and I would step into the legs. Then came the struggle to get the arms through. You had to hold onto the cuffs of your sweater sleeves so they did not bunch up at your elbows. If you lost your grip on a cuff |
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