I cannot remember being this bundled up, this "layered", since I was probably five years old, and my mom would send my sisters and I out in the back yard in the winter to play while she made dinner. In this backyard, which seemed like a football field in length, though in reality was only second-down-and-short, was perfect for making our "snow pie": Laurie, followed by Mickey, with the ever-obedient me following, making a large circle in the snow. then we would cut it in half, then quarters, then... I would lose interest, and we'd all make "Snow Angels" instead.
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When you get older and realize that your past is getting longer than your future, you become a story-teller. Mom's favorite was of her father getting all dressed in layers to make the long winter-morning walk to his job, lunch bucket in one hand, tool kit in the other, and a cigar in his mouth. But this one particularly brutal winter morning, while crossing the main street, down he went--- as my mother described it--- "like a turtle on its shell", and no way could his arms or legs be of any assistance, thanks to the seven layers of clothing he wore. The whole family, little ones like my mom included, had to run out and drag him to the curb and help him up. Like any good story-teller, mom would be in hysterics, describing how mad her father was.
Chicago, at 3:00 this morning.
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