I don’t like winter. One reason for my dislike of the cold, dark season is a strange thing that happened to me when I was a boy, about five.
In 1963, we had a monstrous snow, almost three feet. We had been cooped up inside for three days, and my mom said, “Get your snowsuit on. You’re going outside.”
My snowsuit consisted of two pairs of pants, two shirts, and, on top of that, my old snowsuit which zipped up the front, plus a hat with ear muffs and a wool scarf. Last year’s snowsuit was tighter than ever. When I walked, I was like a penguin, but I thought I could take the harsh weather.
My mom pushed me outside and said, “Go find the cat.”
I was sweating and walked about twenty steps, when I turned and looked back,
then fell on my back two feet into the snow. I quickly realized that I couldn’t move.
I was like a turtle on his back.
I was there about an hour, and I was cold. The wind had blown snow over me,
and I raised my hand above snow level and waved.
After about ninety minutes, I started yelling, “Help!”
This did attract the cat. I tried to get the cat to go get Mom.
I heard her voice: “Stephen, don’t lay in the snow. You’ll catch a cold.”
“Mom, help me. I can’t get up,” I pleaded.
She pulled me out of the snow, not knowing that she saved my life. I could’ve died there, the front door within sight, frozen and forgotten.