Now It's Down To Business

The second snow isn't going to be that pretty. Nor will the third and following. Maybe in the Bing Crosby movies set in Vermont they are, but not really. I lived there.

The “Holiday Inn” (where Wilson Clemmons got his motel name from) and “White Christmas” films were lovely, set in that New England state which simply shouts “snow” and old-fashioned winters. But when I lived there, we were up to our noses in cold, damp snow and the tourists only stayed for a short while.

It gets dreary after a while: the trees appear starkly black against the white snow, everywhere you look. Sure, we had evergreens, but not all over the place. There were no horse-drawn sleighs with farmers covered in blankets. Pickup trucks are the norm there, conversations are brief, punctuated with “ayuh.”

I heard my mother on the phone one day and almost every word she said was, “ayuh.” Honest. She went nearly the whole call with just that one word, ending with “bye.” Why waste your breath? I think she got it from either her mother or her father, the latter none too generous with his speech, either.

Now that I think of it, I think I may have lost that particular New Englandism over the years. Or maybe not; perhaps I slip into it without thinking now and again. It could be something I use when the snow flies, when I pass a particular build of house which reminds me of days gone by when I drove those pickups.