By Lorry Myers
It had snowed the night before, the ground was knee deep and more was on the way. My friends and I were too excited about the white stuff to be cautious, little girls too tough to worry about the flurries or the freeze. Our snow play started in one yard and ended up in the next block, snow
angels and baby snowmen left behind in our wake.
That’s when we ran into them.
I don’t know who threw the first one but suddenly, we were in a snowball fight. We stood our ground the best we could, but my circle of girls were outnumbered so we retreated, cutting through yards and alleys, forgetting about our footprints in the snow.
Exhausted, we hid behind a row of bushes to catch our breath. My feet were now numb and my gloves were frozen and I had lost all feeling in my fingers and in my hope of getting home.
The snow wasn’t so fun anymore.
When we cautiously poked our heads up, those boys were waiting and whaled us with their hastily made arsenal of snowballs. The attack ended when the boy’s ammunition ran out and the girls made a break for freedom, splitting and scattering, each finding our own way home.
My father warned me about frostbite, but when you are a kid, you think you are invincible until you learn otherwise. Luckily my aching toes recovered as did nine of my frozen fingers but there is one finger that never fully recovered. The slightest chill will cause my middle finger to turn numb, lose its color, stiffen and stand straight up, sending a message that says nothing about the weather.
After that legendary snowball fight left me with a winter finger, I‘ve learned to be proactive with winter wear by stocking a collection of finger protection that keeps my fingers protected. I live by the power of gloves and always have a pair at my fingertips.
For the complete column, please see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard.