Anticipation of warmth, new growth and even the digging out of winter-imprisoned shorts.
But Wednesday produced the best snowfall of the year and became perhaps the best day of the year.
The shorts stayed drawer-bound and polar fleece jackets and Red Army surplus hats, ushankas they call them, with the earflaps and plenty of padding, became the uniform of the day.
The newborn lambs seemed to have survived the overnight snowfall, and the sun had a clear blue sky to itself.
At Naseby’s swimming dam, where the forest walking tracks and cycleways begin, the world was white. Our footprints were pretty much the first to break the surface, but it had to be done.
Snow is not just for looking at. Almost instinctively, the grandson, a child of the coast, realised that this white stuff was for chucking at people, and suddenly the grandfather was bombarded with snowballs.
Like an old warhorse and with no thought of the consequences, the grandfather launched a retaliation. He hadn’t lost the magic touch, honed all those years ago at places like Lake Tekapo, and a direct hit left grandson weeping and the old man being reprimanded by a cluckery of the boy’s female minders. The grandson, offered a free hit, soon had his revenge and peace was restored.
Inevitably, all this action was being photographed but, almost equally inevitably, will never be looked at. The grandmother, keen to record an image of a snow-spattered grandfather, kept her eyes on the viewfinder and never saw the snow-disguised boulder on which she tripped, then tottered and fell.
Of course, nothing is more amusing than the misfortunes of others and a chorus of guffaws rang through the forest. It soon died away when the grandmother’s graze was revealed, but there was hope that at least one of the party had managed to snap the matriarch as a fallen woman.
Distraction from the tragedy came as the playground beckoned.
Now, if you’ve never had a slide into a pile of soft snow then you’ve never slid and if you’ve never been on a swing kicking snow as you pendulumed, you’ve never swung. And that’s how an hour passed at the swimming hole playground.
All the while the dog was never still. Within minutes, spent in a frenzied racing through snow, black paws were firmly encased in white booties and catching snowballs was the latest craze, shunting sticks and tennis balls into the boring, old hat department.
The dog is advertised as part poodle, part springer spaniel, but in the snow the secret was out. Somewhere in the family tree, given the dog’s delight in mushing through frozen snow, there must have been a touch of husky.
A bit of St Bernard in the pedigree, preferably complete with small brandy barrel, would have been welcomed by the grandfather, just as something to keep out the cold, you understand.
A tiki tour of Naseby under snow seemed a good idea and there’s a great view of the township on the hill near the old Welcome Inn Hotel. The grandfather led the way to the vantage spot at the towering Elizabeth Tree (which has a story worth telling, perhaps another time). To great delight, amidst much louder laughter than the glee which greeted the grandmother’s fall, he stumbled, recovered, swayed and then hit the ground. Slippery stuff, this snow.
Helped to his feet by children he once gave shoulder rides to, the old man wonders if it’s time for a break.
It’s now mid-afternoon and the warmth of the sun has softened the snow. A breeze begins to shake the branches, their dollops of snow now dropping. Smoke rises from the chimneys of the old miners’ cottages and thoughts turn to one of the few pubs still offering a genuine open fire.
So, off to the 162-year-old Royal Hotel, sole survivor of the dozen or more pubs which enlivened life in gold rush Naseby. The fire is blazing and being replenished as we arrive. Years ago, there would always be an old-timer seated close to the fire, prepared to tell visitors stories and lies about the old days but I guess few pubs can afford staff like that these days.
A late lunch and then drowsiness descends. Time for home.
Remember how all those childhood essays you wrote called "What We Did In The Holidays" ended with, "and so we arrived home, tired but happy". Nothing changes. That’s how it was after last Wednesday.
A day easy to remember. After all, snow melts much faster than memories.
— Jim Sullivan is a Patearoa writer.
