Snow fort

We lived on a dead end. Now, they’d call it a cul-de-sac, but in the ’70’s , it was still a dead end. And it was the beginning of fun for us.

The snow plow that cleared our dead end created giant snow banks at the end of Greenwood Drive, stretching its entire width. With the plow’s job done, ours began.

We claimed an end, and a team, and set to work, collecting the big chunks to create our childish version of  crenellations. At some pint, someone would produce a shovel and then the digging began. In spite of parental warnings against collapsing tunnels, we excavated. I worried more about my second grade teacher’s story about the scar on her lip, given to her by her older brother who accidentally hit her with the cutting edge of the shovel.

The talk was always of a snowball fight to follow, but I don’t recall that ever happening. I do remember acting out stories of our own creation. But mostly I remember building. We lugged the big pieces and packed them tight with snow. It was hard work but, with the sun shining on a winter’s day, it was heaven.

We’d take breaks and go home for a ’70’s lunch of  chicken noodle soup and a grilled cheese. In the morning we’d get up to see if our creation was still standing. If the plow had been back, we’d make repairs, then get back to the business of playing.