Growing up on Limekiln Lake meant snow, and lots of it. I’m not sure how many pairs of mittens, gloves and hats I brought in the house each winter that were frozen, wet, and floppy, but the numbers must have been staggering.
The brick hearth base of our Ben Franklin stove was littered with many socks and outer gear that were in various states of dryness.
One particular chilly Decem-ber morning I planned to fill the wood ring and had hopes of working on the snow fort I had started the afternoon before.
I searched through the pile of clothes near the stove for some mittens that were stiff and dry.
The best I could find was a pair that was dry on the outside but still a little damp on the inside.
Soon I was out the door and pushing a wheelbarrow filled with good dry wood.
The air was clear and cold with temperatures hovering at 22 below zero.
By the time I reached the porch my mittens were frozen stiff to the wheelbarrow handle.
I wiggled my hands out of them and tried to peel them free but they seemed to have a permanent hold on that old wood cart.
I could feel the sting of the air against my exposed skin as I carted armload after armload into the house.
I was glad when the last of the wood was in and the old wheelbarrow was back against the woodpile so I could stuff my hands inside my snowsuit and make a dash for the front door.
I turned for a moment and glanced out at my unfinished snow fort and then at the wheelbarrow that was holding my mittens captive.
I decided that snow architecture would have to wait till the temperatures were more conducive to building.
Once inside I flopped my hat and socks down to rest near the glowing wood stove.
I hovered there for almost an hour, slowly turning my body as if I was on a spit.
We often talk about those years when we were growing up when incredible amounts of snow fell, barely mentioning the cold that came along with it.
But I remember. And to this day I make sure I have a few extra pairs of good dry gloves kicking around to be claimed for a day of Adirondack outdoor work.
Mitch Lee, Adirondack native & storyteller, lives at Inlet. ltmitch3rdny@aol.com