It was December 1968 and one of those days that stands out from the other three hundred and sixty-five. Our family had piled into the brown station wagon to head from the sun-drenched shores to a cold and mysterious location called "the mountains." Up to that point in my life, I'd only seen the tall rugged slopes in picture books. I remembered with excitement that they were dotted with Christmas trees, one beautiful triangle of green after another.
My big sisters were less excited than my
older brother and I. They slid over in their
seats and sullenly stared out the windows.
Ricky was five years old and I was three.
Just the thought of a family adventure
had us anxiously jumping up and down
in our seats, poking each other in the ribs,
and fogging up the car windows with our
breath.
As soon as we spotted Dad approaching
the car, we fell silent. The next few
moments were critical. If the car started,
it was a good omen and we'd be on our
way. But heaven help us if it didn't. Dad
opened the driver's side door, scooted
across the crinkled vinyl upholstery, and
adjusted the rear-view mirror. My mom
was the last to come aboard. She opened
the front passenger door and ducked low,
using one hand to hold her beehive hairdo
in place. I knew what was in the brown
bag she carried in her other hand: oranges,
bananas, and apples. (We never took a
family trip without them or peanut butter
and jelly sandwiches.)
The moment before my father turned the
ignition was always a stressful one. We'd
hold our breaths, cross our fingers, and
send telepathic messages to the wagon
nicknamed "Brownie," begging her to play
along. But, even if the ol' girl started, we
knew there was at least one more daunting
obstacle ahead of us before we could finally
exhale. For some reason, Brownie didn't
like the corner of Carthage and Brunswick.
No matter how much my dad warmed her
up, she'd stall right in the middle of the
intersection, refusing to budge. The more he
tried to coerce her to cross the intersection,
the harder she'd chortle, cough, and hold
her ground. Hearing Dad's message that
Brownie had flooded seemed as serious as
the message Noah had given thousands of
years ago.
But on this day, Brownie must have wanted
an adventure too. When Dad turned the
key, she cleared her throat and started her
engine. We pulled away from the curb,
glided across the infamous intersection,
and then sashayed our way to the highway.
I happily watched the landscape change
and eventually rocked to sleep. Two hours
later, Linda nudged me awake and pointed
outside. I remember pressing my nose
against the pane and taking my first look
at steep mountains, dark emerald green
pine trees, and mounds of white billowing
powder that my other sister, Yvonne, said
was "snow."
We had coats on, but none of the other
winter-weather gear. We didn't need
mittens, boots, or scarves at home. We
jumped out of the wagon and into the
snow. The next few minutes were magical.
My brother and sisters ran around the
trees, dodging each other's snowballs, and
calling out to each other. I tried to keep up,
but the snow was as high as my knees. I
decided to stay put and play with the soft,
moldable snow myself.
I barely noticed the chill
of the snow as I happily
plunged in one foot after
another. But soon I felt an
unfamiliar burning in my
shoes. "Mommy," I called out.
"My feet hurt!" She called
for me to come back to the
car. "It's the snow, Honey, it's
freezing your toes like ice."
Now, I knew that my mom
was smart. She knew how to
cook, drive, read, and how to
turn on the television. But, I was sure she
was wrong. That beautiful snow couldn't be
the culprit. I reached down and touched
my cold, wet, dark shoes and a small light
bulb went off. "Mom," I explained, "It's
not the snow's fault, it's my shoes. They're
making my feet hurt and I want to take
them off!" She tried to change my mind.
But, I sat down and pulled the wet shoes
off, leaving red socks covering my tiny feet.
And, I remember vividly thinking that
now that the wet shoes were off, I would
be able to play in the snow in my socks
without a concern. But, within moments
the burning cold came back.
My mom tried again to reason with me
and called me back to the car. But, another
light bulb had gone off in my three-year
old mind. If it wasn't the shoes, it must be
the socks that cause the cold! So, I pulled
them off too and stepped into the snow
with my toes spread wide. It didn't take
long for the cold to cut through the already
tender skin. I was bewildered and began to
cry at the pain and the frustration of it all.
Mom stepped out in the snow and carried
me back to the warm car.
My family still laughs at what happened
forty years ago. But, stories like this happen
everyday. We may not be three years old,
but we all make mistaken conclusions
based on our limited knowledge. It's a
good thing that we can find comfort in
the words of Phyllis Theroux. She wrote
in Night Lights, "mistakes are the usual
bridge between inexperience and wisdom."
Or, as John Powell once wrote, "The only
real mistake is the one from which we
learn nothing."
