“This is more exciting than 90 Day Fiancé.”
My mother is curled up under a quilt on the end of the couch beside me.
“That begs a lot of questions, Mother, none of which I want answered right now.”
She sips her hot chocolate. “Did I give you enough mini marshmallows on yours?” she asks. “I know this is a tough night. I want to make it as sweet as possible.”
I look at my mug. The top is thick with marshmallows, mounded high. “I think you gave me enough,” I say.
It’s Monday night, and we’re waiting as anxiously for the TRVC news to start as many do the Super Bowl. Lisa spoke with Polly Sue, who refused to meet with me or have me cohost the special weather report that will air as breaking news at the top of the newscast. Icicle and I provided Polly Sue with state-of-the-art graphics, the latest radar images and a detailed report of how the polar vortex is developing, when it will arrive and what it will mean for viewers. I suggested that the segment be broken into two halves, the first on the polar vortex and the second on how to prepare for it. I have provided Polly Sue with a solid seven minutes of reporting, and I feel buoyed that Lisa agreed to give the segment so much time, coverage and importance.
The station’s music begins, the anchors come on air and there is immediately the dramatic music that accompanies the breaking news segment.
I sit up, my heart beating rapidly, and inhale a swath of melting marshmallows.
“Breaking news at the top of the hour,” says Stan Stevens, the anchor with white hair and whiter teeth who looks like a snowman’s grandfather. “Chief Meteorologist Polly Sue Van Kampen joins us for the latest. Polly Sue, what’s going on?”
“It is snowing like, well, northern Michigan in February,” Polly Sue says with a laugh. She gestures to the green screen behind her with her stupid pointer. “I think we’ll see up to four inches overnight in the counties nearer the water and up to eight in our more inland counties. The reason? The winds will be picking up overnight and shifting to the south. Snow will become a bit thicker, so if your kiddos aren’t going to school tomorrow morning, then it will be the perfect day to build a snowman with all that heavy, wet snow.” Polly Sue turns toward the camera. She is wearing a bright red dress that is way too short for the nightly news.
“She looks like a fire hydrant,” my mother says. “Or like she’d be working next to one on a street corner.”
“Mother!” I say. “I think I love you even more!” I glance at her and then back to the TV. “She must be leading up to the big news.”
“On a personal note, I would like to thank all of you—” Polly Sue spreads her arms open wide in front of the camera “—for your support. I’m honored to have been named TRVC’s chief meteorologist, and I wanted to show a clip of this little, local gal’s rise from intern to a key member of your nightly news team. I’m proud to say I’ve helped our ratings nearly double since the start of the year.”
“What the hell!” I scream, sitting up and sloshing hot chocolate over the front of my hoodie. “What is she doing?”
A video montage of Polly Sue’s life—Glamour shots and prom photos?—set to cheesy music, one like you might see at a high school graduation or wedding reception, begins to air.
“Sshhh!” my mother says, teasing. “This is big news!”
I am so furious, my entire body is trembling. I text Icicle.
What is going on?
She’s gone rogue, Icicle texts back. No one knows what to do.
I text Lisa.
What the ???
Nothing from Lisa.
I watch the TV. Nothing there, as well.
None of my forecasts, graphics, information, or predictions. None of my hard work. I feel as if I’m standing in the eye of a hurricane, and the entire world is being obliterated around me. And I can do nothing to stop the mayhem.
“Stop her!” I finally scream.
As if the television hears my demands, the station suddenly cuts back to Stan, who acts as if nothing has happened. “Our top story tonight!” he says. “A fire at the boat storage facility at Bayside Marina…”
My phone trills.
Lisa is laying into Polly Sue right now. Hold on…
I wait and wait as the little bubbles under Icicle’s last text continue to dance.
Polly Sue apologized. Said it was a mix-up. They’re just going to get through the rest of the broadcast and deal with it tomorrow.
I text Lisa.
You know this wasn’t a mix-up, right?
She sends a brief reply.
Talk tomorrow, okay?
My mom and I watch the rest of the news in silence. There is no mention of the polar vortex and no apology from Polly Sue.
“That little redhead really is the devil,” my mother says. “Watch your back. And your front. And your side.”
“I get it, Mother,” I say. “What do I do?”
“You’ve been professional,” my mother says. “Maybe it’s time to be a human polar vortex, and you don’t stop until that little fire hydrant is frozen solid.”
My mother nudges me with her feet.
“Why are your feet always so cold, Mom?”
“I have a lot of polar vortex in me, too,” she says with a wink.
I wake early, unable to sleep. The sun has briefly broken through the clouds over the bay. Snow covers the land. Everything sparkles as if the world has been dusted in sugar. My mom’s birdbaths are now vanilla cupcakes, the front yard and its bushes a beautiful wedding cake. There is something hopeful about a newly fallen snow on which no one has yet to tread. It makes you feel as though anything is possible, that perhaps you can leave a path for others to follow or create one that no one has taken before.
I know what I must do.
I wash my face and pull on some warm clothes. I head downstairs, make some coffee and then begin pulling things from the fridge.
“Are you making a salad for breakfast?”
My mother looks at me confused.
“I’m making a snowman.”
“Have you had your coffee yet?” my mom asks. “And your meds?”
I chuckle and resume foraging through the refrigerator. I pull out some cherry tomatoes to add to the carrots and parsnips I have placed on the island.
“Okay, what’s going on?” my mom asks as she pours a cup of coffee.
I stand. “Remember what Joncee used to say when it snowed? ‘It’s a perfect day to build a snowman.’” I grab my mug of coffee and take a sip. “I’m beginning to realize—ever so slowly—that I can’t control the world like I’ve always wanted to do. I can’t run from reality. What did you tell me a while back? Life involves loss, grief and setbacks. How we choose to deal with all of that is living. I woke up, and I choose to just live in the moment today.”
My mom looks at me.
“Joncee had it all figured out before we all did,” I say. “That’s the beauty of being a kid. You live in the moment. You can be happy with what surrounds you. You don’t overthink. And, for today, I can’t overthink a thing anymore, or I’ll explode. I just want to be. And that means building a snowman. Wanna help?”
My mom glances at the clock on the microwave. “I have an appointment at noon, so we have a few hours, don’t we?”
I nod.
My mom gets dressed and meets me in the front yard. It is one of those magical winter days along the lake where it is simultaneously sunny and snowing.
I stop and look around at the birds perched in the pines, squirrels running up trees and knocking the snow free, rabbits sitting still, their noses twitching in the cold, deer walking along the frozen shore. I—none of us—do this often enough: stop and look around. Take note of our surroundings. Slow to notice the world without rushing to the next place.
“Remember all of Joncee’s rules for building snowmen?” my mom asks.
I laugh, and my breath puffs in front of my face.
“I know the first one—know your snow,” I say.
My mom laughs.
“Had to be just right,” I continue. “Not too powdery, not too slushy.”
“She liked snow that felt like glue, whatever that meant,” my mom says.
“You know what? I think she’d approve of this snowfall.”
I pick up a handful and toss it into the air.
It is ideal snow for building a snowman: wet and compact, so it sticks together and doesn’t fall apart.
“Where should he go?” I ask.
“Joncee’s second rule,” my mom says. “Somewhere flat and shady, faced away from any sun, so that he will live a long time.”
I point to an area in the front yard overlooking the bay. “How about there? It’s under that big pine on a level area where people driving by can see him.”
“Perfect!”
“Ready?” I ask my mom.
I begin to push snow together to form the base of the snowman, and I can hear Joncee laughing beside me, reciting her rules.
No, Amberrose! Do it this way! she’d say. Joncee always started with a big snowball in her hands, which she’d place on the ground and roll around until it reached the size she wanted. Then she would brace the area around it by packing extra snow, so the wind wouldn’t knock it over.
Flatten it! she’d tell me next, reminding me to flatten the top of the snowman’s foundational snowball so the next one would be more secure and the entire structure would have stability.
Three-two-one, Amberrose! Remember before you start the next snowball! she’d continue, letting me know the snowman should look proportional, its head smaller than the middle snowball, which should be smaller than the bottom one.
“Aren’t you hot?” I ask my mom, a half hour into our work. In fact, I am sweating so much that—despite the cold—I remove my puffy coat.
“You’re a true Michigander now!” yells Mason. “No coat! I knew this day would come!”
I jump. I didn’t even hear him pull up in the snow.
“Michiganian,” my mom corrects him. “I’m not a goose. Michigander is just plain wrong.”
“Michigan legislature voted Michigander as the way to refer to its people,” Mason says, getting out of his SUV.
“What do they know?” my mom says with a laugh.
“You’re a true Michigander-anian,” Mason says.
My mom releases a big whoop that echoes across the silent bay.
“Need some help?” Mason asks.
He begins pushing snow together for the middle of the snowman.
“What prompted this today?” he asks. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Seemed like a snowman kind of morning,” I say. “What prompted you stopping by today?” I look at him. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I missed you,” he says.
My mom bolts upright. A big smile covers her face. Her nose is as red as the berries on the holly bush in front of the house.
“I missed you, too,” I say.
“And I saw the news,” he continues. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“No work chatter right now,” I say. “Just build.”
We work in silence. I huff and puff as I make perfectly round balls of snow. The sound of my breathing—through my earmuffs and the scarf around my neck—makes me feel like a little girl trapped in an adult body.
Once we have the body built, I take a step back and cross my arms.
“What do you want him or her to look like?” I ask.
My mom crosses her arms, too, and considers the snowy body. “You mean, not a regular ole Frosty?”
“It can be anything,” I say. “Right?”
“You know, I’m sort of a snowman expert,” Mason says. “A Frosty historian, if you will.”
“Do tell,” I say.
“In my job with the chamber and my job as a father, I’ve built hundreds of snowmen. And in my job promoting winter festivals and writing winter reports for my kids, I’ve uncovered a lot of fascinating facts.”
“Such as?” my mother prompts.
“Well, did you know the earliest photo of a snowman dates all the way to the 1800s?”
“Wow,” my mom says. “What else?”
“Snowmen are considered one of humanity’s earliest forms of folk art,” he continues. “They were a phenomenon in the Middle Ages and were constructed with incredible skill and thought. This was a time of limited means of expression and money, so snow was like free art supplies being dropped from the heavens. One of the most popular activities of that time was for couples to stroll through town to view the works of art. When Michelangelo was nineteen, he was commissioned by the ruler of Florence to sculpt a snowman in his mansion’s courtyard.” Mason stops and turns to me. “And I know this is a bit too parallel to what you’re forecasting, but in Brussels they endured six weeks of subzero temperatures. It was called the Winter of Death, but the citizens turned it into what would be known as The Miracle of 1511 in which the entire city was filled with snowmen, many of which told a story of family, politics, church or hope. Historians say it was their Woodstock, a defining moment of artistic freedom.”
My mother and I are staring at this man, his face ruddy from the wind, his handsome face like a boy’s. He’s like a walking winter encyclopedia of fun facts, delivering them all in a giddy rush like a kid giving a report at the science fair.
“You know your snow,” my mom says. “Just like Joncee used to, right?”
I smile and nod.
“Thank you,” he says. “I do love snow.” Mason looks at me. “I’m thinking you’re learning to like it, too.”
“I am,” I say.
I think of what Mason just said about artistic freedom, as if he were channeling Joncee’s final rule for building snowmen, and a sense of peace falls over me. I scan the scene. I can see my entire family—old and new, present and past—here in the front yard building a snowman. Together.
“And I think I have an idea, too. Follow my lead.”
I instruct Mason and my mom to gather a variety of items, from inside and outside, many of which elicit double takes, eye rolls and shrugs.
I place my items as if I were a fashion designer dressing a model, tweaking, culling, adding as I go.
When I’m finished, I take a few big steps back, the crunching of my boots in the snow my theme music as if I were on Project Runway.
Satisfied, I finally exclaim, “Ta-da!”
“What is it?” my mother asks.
Mason looks at her and bursts out laughing.
“It’s us!” I say. “All of us!”
I continue. “Joncee used to always say, ‘Why does a snowman always have to be a man? Why can’t it be me? Or you? Shouldn’t they be whatever we want them to be?’ I was thinking of that this morning, and, Mason, when you were talking about the history of snowmen, it dawned on me that we don’t have to limit ourselves. Not only in making a snowman but in our own lives. I don’t have to limit myself in terms of career, or relationship or happiness.” I look at my mother. “Why do women have to choose so often, Mom? Career or family? Personal or professional fulfillment?” I stop. “Winter or summer?”
I admire my creation. Its curved stick arms reach into the air. From a distance, my snowman resembles a saguaro cactus.
“When I ran away to Palm Springs, it finally dawned on me why I loved the desert so much: it reminded me of Joncee. I may have tried to leave all of Joncee’s memories behind, but I couldn’t. You were right, Mom. I always remembered. The cactus always seemed to resemble a little kid to me, solitary and all alone. But when I’d see them, they would come to life for me, arms up, ready to hug me. I felt surrounded by Joncee’s presence in the desert. But when I was leaving this last time, it hit me—I always thought those cacti were greeting me home but maybe they were always trying to wave goodbye. Maybe they came into my life for a reason. Maybe, like a snowman, they were a symbol, a marker, a placeholder for Joncee. But not the real thing. And maybe it’s okay to forgive myself and finally say goodbye.” I look around at the winter beauty. “Because I’m not cold anymore.”
My mother comes rushing over and hugs me. “Oh, honey. You’ve never been cold. You just froze from the inside out to protect yourself.”
Mason walks over and holds his arms open, too. “You’re one of the warmest people I’ve ever met,” he whispers.
We all look at our creation.
“The golf club in the snowman’s hand reminds me of dad,” I say. “The pink scarf with the caduceus nursing pin is for you, Mom. Mason, the blue necklace made from beach glass is in memory of Andi, and the abominable snowman stuffed animal I bought at the Yeti Festival is for you. And the patchwork star on top of its head is for me and Joncee.”
“It’s beautiful,” Mason says.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” my mom says. She laughs. “But I do think it’s my favorite snowman-person-cactus-creation-thing I’ve ever built in my life. Who has their phone? We need a picture.”
“I do,” Mason says.