Here is a story I wrote about snow and growing up in Central Maine. It was first published by Rose George in the UK art and fashion magazine TANK. But then Anderbo picked it up and republished it. It’s had a long happy life there.
1971. Maine. Six years old. I wore a red snowsuit. Winter came in October. The wind sighed and whistled, picked up speed across the field and hit the corner of the house so it groaned. At night the crabapple tree clawed the walls. From my bed I saw flashes of yellow and assumed the wind was holding its hard eye to the window, like a wolf assessing a doll’s house.
The wind did not just eat you, it wanted you to give yourself to it. Gray men in trucks drove slowly past the windows looking in with sideways eyes. “Got any guns to sell?” they asked my father. He said no, and they drove away, returning some other day, sideways again. Maybe they expected to grab something if it fell off the house.