Jonny McCambridge: The big snow of ‘86 and the old wooden sledge

The chimney on the oil burner is belching out steam almost constantly in a desperate effort to keep the creeping chill out of the house.

Because I’m working on this day I hear the weather warning on my wee wireless several times. The prediction of overnight snow.

Unwisely, I tell my son. He wakes early the next morning and pulls back the curtains excitedly.

But there is no snow; instead the road is shining wet under the streetlight.

I forgot one of the hard-learned lessons of my youth. Snow does not come when expected, and the more you desire it the less likely it is to appear.

Only when you look the other way, turn your attention to something else, is there a chance of a crisp covering.

To cover his disappointment my boy asks me to tell him some of the stories of snow from my youth.

I think about it. I am surprised about how many of my earliest memories involve snow, and the clarity of my recollection.

I tell him about the big snow of 1986. Then I lived on a rocky patch of high land in rural north Antrim.

My family awoke one bitter morning that winter to find that the power was out and the snow had blown in drifts higher than the top of the front door.

We dressed in a room without electricity or heat and fought our way outside. The cars were useless in the face of this storm so we had to locate the tractor, which was almost entirely buried.

My da and uncle dug out the old Massey. I tried to think that I was helping as I moved around snow, snot dripping from the end of my nose.

Then I went into the cab with my da to drive on a rescue mission to Ballycastle to get food and supplies.

As we spluttered along the road at less than 10mph my fingers throbbed with pain but I said nothing, unwilling to jeopardise my place on the expedition.

I tell my son of an even earlier memory. Another day of heavy snow in the mountain and my brother and I taking our old wooden sledge out in the evening. As the darkness of the night deepened we went further and further from home, across the lanes and fields, in search of steeper slopes and greater excitement.

For hours my brother and I took turns as the sledge slid and scraped along the rough, icy ground.

A new, heavier snowfall began to fill in the footprints we had left; but still we went on sledging, immune to the bite of the cold and unaware of the lateness of the hour.

Eventually my da had to go on a rescue mission of a different sort, to locate us deep in the fields and to bring us home to thaw.

I grew up assuming that our wooden sledge had been bought in a shop. It was only as an adult that I learnt that it was built by my da. It still hangs in his garage and is of such sturdy construction that it will most likely outlast us all.

It is later in the same week. I have some days off work and there is no reason to listen to the news.

If there is a weather warning I don’t hear it. I sleep later than usual and am surprised when my wife wakes me by telling me and my son that there is snow. ‘Only when you look the other way.’

It is a light covering. A wee skiffle. But any snow is a rarity so my boy is thrilled.

My wife is working so I first dig out her car. It is only a couple of centimetres of flakes, rather than several feet as in earlier decades, but I tackle the job with great seriousness.

There is something about the scrape and squelch of the navvy shovel on the hard, wet ground which always reminds me of an earlier time. The snot again drips from my nose.

Then my son comes out to play. The garish green plastic sledge I bought two years ago has emerged from its hibernation (a talent for making things is not something which has been passed down through the generations).

I suppose I was younger than my boy is now when I wandered off into the fields. That was then. I stay with him the whole time, pulling the sledge down the road in our cul-de-sac while he squeals with delight behind me.

Each time we get to the bottom of the hill he demands we go back for another go.

Eventually I have to bring it to an end because the muscles in my legs are aching. Even then he insists on one last run which he makes me record on my phone so it can be sent to mummy.

Then we play snowballs and build a snowman. We have been out for several hours before my son finally succumbs and asks if he can go back inside to warm his hands.

I stay outside for just a few more minutes because I want to finish the snowman.

A persistent rain is falling now and the thaw is already setting in. I have an instinctive feeling that the snow will all be gone soon. The flakes are nowhere near as tenacious and persistent as the childhood memories which surround them.

I put a face on the snowman and then kick the ice off my boots before I enter the house. My son is sitting at the bottom of the stairs, watching something with deep concentration.

My assumption is that he is playing the new Nintendo that Santa left for him. It has occupied most of his time since Christmas and all other activities are currently just filling in time until he can get back to it.

But when I get closer I realise that it is my phone he is holding. He is watching the video of me pulling him down the hill on the sledge.

Each time that he gets to the end of the recording he goes back to the beginning so that he can watch again.

When he hears his wails of fear and excitement in the video he smiles and giggles, over and over.

There is much that changes over the generations.

But thankfully there is much that stays the same.

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