I grew up on a quiet block in Evanston, not far from the lake. In winter, our street turned into a long, white hallway with walls of snow. I remember my sisters and the kids from next door—Diego and Amira—dragging shovels bigger than our arms, carving tunnels through the snowbanks so we could crawl from yard to yard without stepping onto the sidewalk.
Some storms felt endless. Cars disappeared under heavy blankets, their side mirrors sticking out like ears. A few stayed parked for months, little white domes that resembled igloos. When the plows finally pushed the street open, they left tall ridges that froze hard—good for snow forts and bad for crossing. We learned to climb with boots that squeaked and scarves that iced over with our breath.
Walking to school was an adventure and a test. The sidewalks were a patchwork: one house shoveled down to the concrete, the next still buried. We took turns leading the line, kicking steps into the piles. Mittens got wet; gloves were for older kids who could keep track of fingers. By the time we reached the corner, we were sweating under our coats and grateful for the red glow of the crossing sign melting a small circle in the air.
On the best days, the whole block turned into a playground. We built snowmen that leaned and smiled with small rocks for eyes and sticks for arms. We laid in the snow and made snow angels in the quiet front yard, and packed perfect snowballs that flew soft and straight if the air temperature was below 20, and hard, (and possibly dangerous), if temperatures were closer to freezing. The alley became a tunnel city, with paths to the garage and secret meeting spots behind the trash cans. We shoveled neighbors’ sidewalks for spending money, proud of our rows of clean, dark rectangles cutting through the white.
But winter taught us humility, too. One night after a lake-effect burst, I tried to move the family car into a newly plowed spot. I didn’t see the ridge the plow had left. The tires climbed it, spun, and dropped into a pocket of slick ice and packed snow. I was stuck—front wheels digging, back wheels hissing. Before I could panic, the block woke up. Diego came outside to help; Amira waved me to stop spinning the tires. Mr. Yoder came with a bag of salt and a short shovel. Someone yelled, “Rock it!” and three pairs of boots pressed shoulders to the trunk. We shoveled, salted, and counted together—one, two, three—push! The car bumped up, slid, and then found the road like a boat catching water. I rolled the window down to say thanks, and the steam from our breath drifted up like a flag in the streetlight.
That’s the part I hold closest now: how winter made us each other’s plan. We weren’t just surviving the cold; we were practicing it—one shoveled square, one shared push, one long white hallway at a time.