Where are the Snows of Yesteryear?

by Erika Hoffman

“Mais, ou sont les neiges d’antan?” wrote Francois Villon in a poem about beautiful women long gone. Villon was a colorful character in France’s 15th century past who was a thief and perhaps hanged by the government. I wonder if he composed his poetry after having just awakened from a dream and maybe he wondered what had happened to the pleasant part of his past.  Was he in the prison at Meung-sur -Loire when these thoughts about life raced through his mind?

I find when I dream now, I don’t conjure up the future or nightmarish scenarios stoked by anxiety or caused by a late-night spicy snack.  What comes to me as I doze, at this stage in life, are nostalgic memories. I dream of my maternal grandma chuckling at something I said while she sips tea. I dream of my mom taking us to the large white hill in the next town to zoom down on metal saucers in the snow.  I dream of my dad, attired in his business suit waiting in the foyer of the department store to pick up 17-year-old me after my first day at my first summer job—a Bamburger’s clerk.  Sometimes, I dream of past pets— a long parade of loving dogs and affectionate cats— never the hamsters, parakeets, or tropical fish.

I dream of school and awards I received and the time my 9th grade essay, a character study on Rhett Butler, was read aloud by the headmistress to the entire upper school during morning announcements. I dream of breaking my wrist while showing off my limited ice skating skills in front of my Girl Scout Troop and how cold my nine-year-old fingers were that winter because they projected from the cast, and no one thought about gloving them for my walk to school.

And sometimes I dream of my grown kids when they were babies. Yet, mostly the visions I recall are images of my own childhood. It’s funny what sparks a night’s dream.  It’s not the taste of Linden tea and Madeleines, like with Proust. Usually for me, it’s an old photo, a goldy -oldy melody on the radio, or a rediscovered letter.  The other day my Arizona cousin who is cleaning out her 93-year-old mom’s house because her mom has moved to a nursing home, sent me a letter my own mom had mailed my aunt back in ’82 when Mom learned she’d been diagnosed with cancer. In it, Mom’s tone is optimistic, practical, and thankful.  She talks about me, my husband, and her first baby grandchild and how she looks forward to playing with him the following month.  Her legible script, her carefully crafted sentences, her provision of details all remind me of her diligence and perseverance.  But it’s her voice that rings out from the letter. I could hear it as I read her words, her thoughts. I’ll scan this letter, this treasure, and send a copy to my sibs and to my four grown children, who didn’t know her.

And since I read that letter a couple of days ago, I’ve dreamt of her—pleasant reminiscences—not my teenage disputes with Mom. Those have disappeared.  Now, I recall only happy days like her taking ten-year-old me with her on the high school bus to away-football games when she was the cheerleading chaperone; or when she drove me to Duke University to show me her alma mater; or when I accompanied her to Spain as she took her high school Spanish students on a field trip there.  In dreams, I relive my childhood.

When I lay my head on the pillow each night, I go back, and I find the snows of yesteryear. I get to live my life anew. And the next morning, I take out my ballpoint pen and write.

Erika Hoffman has written inspirational, non-fiction essays that appear in anthologies such as Chicken Soup for the Soul and regional magazines like Sasee of Myrtle Beach. Her essays on writing have appeared in The Writer as well as Funds for Writers Magazine. She also writes a column on writing for ezine Page & Spine.