The Hanover Scene
As these lines are written we are enjoying the January Thaw, a false dawn granted to bemused wanderers on this portion of a benighted orb. Doubtless we will again be solidly refrigerated by the time our words, through the ephemeral dignity of letter press and second-class permit, reach our so-called public basking in its patios. But despite the malicious vagaries of climate, we are still annually blessed with a brief respite almost before winter seems to have set in.
Les neiges d'antan are hard to recall in detail (except the winter of '34 when we daily put the blowtorch to carburetor and differential) but our general impression is that we ordinarily get little worse than heavy fuel consumption and general disgruntlement from Thanksgiving to New Year's. Intermittently comes snow, the poor man's manure, and Nowel cryeth every lusty man, and shovel cryeth every lusty schoolboy. Operators of ski resorts have an Anschauung differing from that of owners of driveways. One man's frozen meat is another man's frozen poison, and we have no doubt of where we stand.
This, however, is all preliminary. We have used less than half of our supply of sand when the blessed Thaw arrives. Water treacherously conceals ice hummocks on the sidewalks, traveled roads are bare to the purr of snow treads, and our oil burner refuses to start from lack of practice. Wailing and gnashing of blubber-encrusted teeth echo from the Outing Club, and the Dekes take heart in the thought that everybody else's snow sculpture may be as scant as theirs. What soppy snow remains is soon converted into missiles by careless boys at play — on whom the hoary colleges look down with only mild disapproval - and the skiers, fresh from the Andes, scour the wilds of Mt. Tremblant in preparation for an imminent appearance in Garmisch-Partenkirchen. Tuck Drive is closed to traffic, although its 7% gradient is infinitely less precipitous than the other approaches to the village, and the Precinct saves the taxpayers the cost of overtime for night plowing.
We could be content with several months of dingy, barren, above-freezing landscape, but regardless of individual preference, winter has always eventually come back. Snow arrives in abundance along with mid-year exams, and we have to re-alert high school boys to uncover the icy glacis that serves as access to our modest outbuildings. Eisgleiten and pratsitzen are better accommodated on the campus paths, and the orthopedic department at Dick's House clears its decks for the skiing season. Eyes gleam bright above the scarlet parkas of the D.O.C. bureaucracy as they sharpen their crampons and pitons, and the Abominable Snowman clomps across our back yard.
Our advancing years insulate us from the generality of ski enthusiasts, with whom we were never seriously en rapport, and our circle of intimates seems more and more to inhabit Winter Park and worry about the citrus crop. But the high, clear call of duty, or livelihood, keeps many of us in situ and we endeavor to accept the hibernal necessity with stolid acquiescence. One winter, years ago when we were still naive enough to roam the surrounding territory, we queried the native of a neighboring state about prospects for the cessation of the season. His response was a lesson for all of us: "Aint never see the snow rot in the sky yet."
Winter, like nuclear fission, is a phenomenon. One can take it or leave it alone and we prefer the latter alternative.
