Winter Afternoon

Messages about the coming snowstorm are all over the place. Rumor has it that supermarkets in Virginia are completely emptied out by worrying customers as if an apocalyptic doom draws near. The news even reached my parents who now live in Beijing, and they texted me this morning to make sure that I would be safe. And I answered: “Yes, no worry. Storm happens here all the time.” Then they were able to go to bed, feeling assured. It is a curious thing that every time some kind of unrest happens in the State, be it a riot, shooting, or protestation, my parents will immediately learn about it from official night news in China.

The Bostonian winter can be bleak and dreadful. Wind is often rustling in cloudy days, and relentless snow (not this year though) and slippery ice on the road-surface always make one’s walking slow and cumbersome. People are shielded beneath heavy winter garments. Dark-color scarf hides half of the face; oftentimes a winter hat, earmuffs, and gloves cover tightly other parts of the body that might be exposed to the icy air. Everyone on the street hastens to their destination without the lease interest to look around, linger, or even politely nod to the passerby.

It’s my fifth year sojourning in this city, and winter is surely not its selling-point. I have seen heavy snow falling on April 1st, days of storm burying bicycles under, and (most painstakingly) multiple times I have trudged through slushy road when ice and snow are half melting. Not to mention the school will be closed due to adverse weather, and academic calendar will be cast into chaos. Make-up lectures and sections have to be arranged, and many more schedule negotiations ensue. It is not a lovely experience for teacher and students alike.

My hometown is Beijing, and I had lived there until age 22. It is a city too known for its dry and freezing winter (now also notorious for its severe air pollution). One of the most haunting childhood memories for me is that my mom often wore me layers of clothes and pants in winter until every inch of my skin was properly protected. Only after this elongated preparation would I be allowed to play outside. I loved snow then. It meant building snowman with friends and chasing one another with snowballs. It meant laughter, fun and total immersion (however momentarily) in pure joy and mutual companionship (especially for those like me who are the only kid in the family). I even felt thankful for those layers of coat, for even if falling I would not be able to feel any pain. In retrospect, there is a mixed feeling, vacillating between longing nostalgia and satisfying estrangement, when one discovers that he has already been transformed from a boy innocently fascinated with snow to an adult who growls: “Oh, please, snow again”!

Now it’s 3 pm, almost dark outside. We decided to stay in this weekend, so that the unfavorable weather can be avoided, and meanwhile I can prepare for the first day of the spring semester. It’s silent, only squirrels climbing up and down trees looking for edibles. We then play some light music, and I take randomly a book from shelf.

Snow starts falling.

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“Newly brewed wine with rich foam,

and a little heating stove made of red clay.

It is going to snow at night,

will you drink one more cup of wine with me?”

——Bai Juyi (772–846), a Chinese poet

綠蟻新醅酒，紅泥小火爐。 晚來天欲雪，能飲一杯無？

——白居易