Back before climate change, we had winter, and folks use to ski in water that would freeze and make snow. People used gravity to ski from the top of the snow to the bottom of it. Sometimes they snapped their shins or skied right into a tree and died, but other times, they caught the wind under their skis and soared, ever briefly, high above the crowds, catching the cold crisp air beneath their feet, alighting upon the soft snowy incline and gliding to the stretch.
That looks like a nightmare in so many ways: the incline, the ice, the cartilage in my knees, the narrow passage, no room for strollers or wheelchairs, not to mention the industrial factory pollution in the air. Not the type of setting that demands a rousing rendition of “Oh, What A Beautiful Morning!”
Winter vacationists at Crater Lake National Park in Oregon nibbled icicles hanging from a barrack’s roof in 1949. Perhaps ice was cleaner then.
All aboard Grandpa’s 1955 Chevy pickup for Greg, Kevin, and Paula, joined by Rex atop bales of hay. Walter and Barbara Mohr’s family farm near Millington, Michigan provided many great photo ops throughout the 1960s.
And who wouldn’t want a kiss from Rex?
Goodness, that’s no jolly, happy soul! Where’s the corncob pipe and button nose and two eyes that don’t look demonic?
Mother and child make their way down Congress Street in Portland, Maine during a winter afternoon in 1968. Mother seems to be contemplating an early retirement in Florida.
Is ice what you really want when you’re up to your ankles in it?