All I can think about is how cold my nose is. I can’t even feel my toes anymore. I can feel my cousin shivering on top of me. The landscape blurs as it zooms by, making it extremely difficult to appreciate the small shrubs that dot the tundra. The snow glistens brightly. It feels like every particle of refracted light shines right into my eyes. I should have brought my sunglasses. Now every sensory function in my face has been whisked away in the chilling December wind; the only thing that reassures me that it hasn’t gone completely numb yet is the fact that I can still feel the wisps of fur from my parka brushing against my face every time we get an extremely aggressive billow of wind. The harsh wind carries the unsettled snow into little whirlwinds that surround our wooden sled . Most sounds are drowned out by the thunderous snow machine that is pulling us over the sharp snow banks.
My squinted eyes are peeled away from the landscape when Adria holds her snow goggles up over her head. I reach out and seize them, anxious to relieve my eyes. Normally I would feel guilty taking these from my younger cousin, but her head is buried under mountains of blankets anyway, so I don’t think she needs them. I slide the goggles on and greedily soak up my surroundings. As soon as the goggles are secured on my eyes, I can see every detail of the tundra. My eyes function much like the auto focus on any digital camera, focusing first on the things far away, then at the things closer to our path. At first glance, the snow is untouched, but if you take a closer look you can see little footprints across it. The footprints come from every direction. There are no large footprints; all the large animals are taking long winter naps
My eyes scan everything, but soon I find them zeroing in on the strings on Jessica’s hat. They whip around her head, as she has no protection from the wind while she sits on the snow machine. My trance is broken when she ducks behind my dad’s back. Her strings quickly still on her shoulders.
My fingers wrap around the warm packet inside my seal fur mittens. I welcome the heat. The warmth seeps into my hands and suddenly I am filled with gratitude towards my mother, who found the hand warmers for me. I imagine my fingers defrosting from a blue frozen state, and slowly returning to their normal flesh color. I have this strangely soothing image in my head as I duck back under the protection of the blanket.
Here, under the covers, I smell my grandma’s house, with a colder edge. My face slowly thaws, and the sensation of breath fanning across my face registers in my brain. My body stiffens for only a moment, before I realize that it must be my cousin’s breath that is slowly warming me. Her even breathing leads me to believe that she has fallen asleep, and I decide to join her, in the land of dreams.
My fingers curl around the hard wooden handle. I’ve prolonged this enough; there [SA7] are only three people left in the line, so I may as well go now. I approach the tall, proud tree. I place the saw in the crook and slowly begin [SA8] moving it back and forth. The grate of the wood causes the saw to vibrate in my hands as I continue to saw away at the tree. I watch as the shavings join their neighbors in a pile on top of the snow around the trunk. I think about all the times we’ve done this in the past. I think about how many times I’ve used this very saw to claim a Christmas tree. I am lost in my thoughts until I hear my dad approaching. I stop sawing, straighten myself, and with a smile, make an exchange with my dad. I give him the saw as he hands me the camera.
I stand on top of the small bank of snow, hoping to get a good angle on the scene. I want to catch the cold noses, the loving smiles, the thrown snowballs, the tree that we’ve conquered. I want to catch it all. Since my fingers are vulnerable away from the warmth of my mittens, the auto focus function on the camera is the only thing that tells me when I’ve pressed the shutter button. I watch the taller trees bow as they take on the brunt of the wind’s force. My eyes peer through the viewfinder on my camera, and the view I find is absolutely breathtaking. The sun has begun it’s lengthy return to the horizon, and casts out brilliant pinks and oranges. The watercolors across the sky shimmer on the snow’s surface, and causes everyone’s cold cheeks to glow. I take an “eskimo picture,” as my grandpa likes to call it, and I gaze at the amazing scene before me.
My eyes capture this wonderful atmosphere of love. The ornaments are coming out of their yearly homes, to find a seasonal dwelling on a lovely perch in our Christmas tree. Each ornament holds a memory. I look down at the ornament that my grandma’s weathered hands have just handed me. This particular ornament has the memories flowing in my brain. I remember the green countryside. I remember the amazing accents that seemed so foreign at the time. I remember the castles that were built out of angular stone. The smooth porcelain Scottish Royal Guardsmen is cold in my hands, after spending many months in the basement. The country name “Scotland” is engraved in the little pedestal on which the small man stands. The vibrant red accents make me smile, as I remember meeting men that wore this exact uniform outside the Edinburgh Castle.
I am in my own little world as I stare down at the fragile statuette. All of a sudden, I am brought out of my bubble when I am bumped from behind. My delicate grip on the little man has been completely lost. Dread and fright flood me, and exit in the form of a helpless scream. The memento hits the ground at full speed. The sound of it hitting the ground shatters all hope I had of him surviving the treacherous drop. I watch as the pieces slide across the floor, as fireworks slide across the dark sky. Every person in the room has their eyes glued to the fractured pieces. No one says a word as I my eyes scour over the porcelain that is spewed across the wooden floor. My eyes wander up towards my grandma. Her gaze is directed at the head of the little man, and her face looks thoughtful, as though she is trying to remember where she placed something. She looks up at me, and a brilliant smile crosses her face. She then breaks the long silence by saying, “Oh Joanna. I am so happy.
She receives no reply more than confused stares. “I guess I should explain myself. When I bought the Royal Guardsman, the vendor had talked me into buying two of them, and once I was out of the shop, I realized that I had nothing to do with the second ornament. So, now I can put him on my tree,” she explains happily before scurrying back to her bedroom to retrieve the replacement.
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