How can something so white, create such dark scorn? The snow falls; New England groans. I think snowstorms are beautiful, but unless I want to be scooped up by a snowplow and dumped into a parking-lot snow mountain at Walmart, I best keep this dysfunctional happiness to myself.

One of my favorite heroines is Brave Irene, by the brilliant William Steig. Irene Bobbin was her mother’s dumpling, cupcake, and pudding pie and she was brave. I used to read the story with my children even if it wasn’t a snow day. But—whenever a snow day came along, then we really got into it. Brave Irene was on a mission to deliver a dress her mother had made for the duchess, in time for the ball. It was the most beautiful dress in the world. But her journey would take her over the hills and far away, and there was a snow storm coming. Brave Irene says:

“I can get it there!”

And, “But I love snow!”

She goes on to battle the snowy winds, clinging to the big box with the dress inside.

And, of course, she becomes worn down just before disaster strikes.

But Brave Irene persists, even with a broken heart.

In the end, the duchess sends Brave Irene home in a sleigh, with ginger cake covered in white icing, some oranges and a pineapple, and spice candy of many flavors.

After reading the story on snow days with my children and after playing outside in the horrible cold winds, we ate ginger cakes and oranges and spice candies–or our own versions of such unfettered decadence.

And, of course, the days did come when we found ourselves challenged by true and terrible snow squalls while skiing on scary mountainsides. It would be so snowy, with fog as thick as a grumpy New Englander’s scorn for snow, that we couldn’t see each other. But—at least we could hear each other’s voices, woven in with the howls of the relentless winds:

“Go home!” the wind squalled. “Irene….go hooooooome…”

And no matter where we were, and no matter what storm had blown in to bury us, we became Brave Irene.

We pressed our backs to the wind and snapped, “We will do no such thing you wicked wind!”

*****

I talked my kids through the deepest snows and down the biggest mountains and out of the most frightening storms with Brave Irene.

The storms kept raging and we all kept growing up, and one day the winds shifted and I began to hear my children reminding me to plow on, keep moving, even when there is no one around to advise you.

Brave Irene’s strength comes from visions of her mother and a warm house—any warm house. Also, her yearning to be in the arms of someone special helps her make it through the storm.

Today, in my warm house, I’ll make lunch for my husband who is a little bit grumpy about more cancelled meetings. I, too, had another meeting cancelled for tonight.

But we will be in each other’s arms and we will be warm.

And I don’t make homemade soup and chicken salad, with cakes and spice candies, on just any old day.