At school that winter, during the Battle
of the Bulge, speechless coming in
from the half mile walk, I’d remember
the last warm morning of Indian summer,
cracking the last of the hickory nuts
outside Mrs. Etter’s first grade classroom;
the ravages of wind and snow reddened
my face, and I would wish I sat on the side
of the room next to the radiators,
shoes damp all day from snow
going down inside my boots,
dreading recess, pulling the still-damp,
wool snowpants up under my dress,
the fairly dry boots with the fur collars
on over my shoes, and once outside,
not wanting to touch the steel handle
of the teeter-totter or the freezing chains
of the swings that burned right through
my knit mittens; returning to the cloakroom
always smelling of damp wool, I’d peel
my outerwear off again sticking my hands
in my armpits, wiggling my toes in my shoes
for a long, long time, my toes so cold
when I walked outside, my joints would crack,
then to sit there barelegged, in just
short socks with oxfords below
my mandatory dress, for hours—
my prayer was always: oh,
to be a boy with long pants in winter.

Peg Carlson Lauber, a longtime Eau Claire resident, has published poetry since 1963 and taught in colleges for 40 years. Her latest books are New Orleans Suite and The Whooping Crane Chronicles. More from Peg.

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