The Fallen Snowman

When white stuff dropped on New Haven, tiny workers on the early shift emerged from many houses.

Children throughout our city Tuesday were disappointed — they were, weren’t they? — that school had been canceled for the day. And instead of learning exactly where Zanzibar is or how fractions are going to frustrate them for the rest of their lives, they had to create their own lesson plans, including episodes of dreary fun, and otherwise set about to memorialize this rare winter event. 

One such figure was spotted at around 7:15 a.m. on Canner Street by an elderly passerby who reports the worker appeared to be about 6 years old, and was more of a sculptor than a builder. 

To the witness, the boy seemed proud of his new snowman, but not entirely satisfied. He kept dabbing at the belly, removing excessive girth, intent on helping his creation to withstand the test of time, which he must have known, if not by experience, it would not.

The boy was too shy to accept a compliment from the stranger, not only for his rendition of his own personal Frosty but also the conditions under which he had produced it. There was a peril nearby.

Somehow, instinctively perhaps, as with the actions of our pets, little kids know that it is necessary for them to manufacture snowballs, and know when the conditions are perfect: the snow content containing enough moisture to pack a punch. They know, too, to throw these snowballs at each other, even if one flies off course and nearly plunks any snowman sculptor in the noggin. 

Yet the little boy persisted, perhaps knowing it was a last-gasp effort. That dreaded spring would come soon, and it would bring with it all sorts of snowless sorrows, including having to help prepare the yard for growing season, and the prospect of no more school cancellations.

Moreover, did the boy know of the consequences of climate change, or, according to some conspiracy theorists, the pervasive hoax created by the likes of Taylor Swift and her Swifties?

As the day passed, the passerby who saw this remarkable piece of natural sculpture was both happy and sad. 

Happy because the day was gorgeous, and it reminded him of his own youth, when the radio reported that the overnight snow was up to his pupik (Yiddish for belly button) and so he didn’t need to pack his arithmetic, reading, and science books, gobble down his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and head off to the class should he not be intercepted by Wayne, the neighborhood bully, and wrestled to the ground.

Sad because he knew the boy’s handiwork would soon disappear, another Tibetan sand mandala of blessed memory. And that soon even that would become impossible when, during winter months in the future, the Elm City becomes the Palm Tree City.

Sure enough, the passerby’s wife, while walking their dog in mid-afternoon, came across the mortally wounded snowman you see above. A symbolic ending to what used to be.