The Lay of Ægir’s Daughters ~ The Denmark Saga, Verse IV

Find part III of the Saga here.

 

“You think we should make a sacrifice of some of these shrimp?”

“Might have better luck with some beer.”

“Fair enough. So, what’s the protocol?”

“As long as it doesn’t involve dancing without your undies on, I’m open.”

“I think it’s more of a – H’OH BOY that one was close – matter of singing and waving your arms about.”

“We are doomed. No offense sister dear, but you couldn’t carry a tune if – whoops, there go the lights again – your next dinner depended on it. Mother? Any thoughts?”

“Mmmfmmmf?” (they are good shrimp).

Kommandorgarden Restaurant

Picture it: Rømø, 2016. A lone isle off the coast of Denmark, just after dusk has fallen. Not that you’d know, unless like the Allfather’s Ravens you rise above the clouds and see the sinking sun lingering in the west. Because beneath those clouds, night reigns supreme. A night filled with mighty thunder and lightning and torrents of rain. To stand beneath, or run through, this deluge might appeal to a Newfoundland Dog, or mayhap a lobster. The humans for their part huddle in the hotel’s hyggelig restaurant, some of them still sporting the look that one of said dogs might have after traversing the sea from Canada to Greenland. Where they linger, random puddles form on the hardwood floor, tirelessly chased and mopped up by Pierre the Softspoken. No, he shall not permit one of the gentle guests he cares for so diligently, clucks over like a mother goose with but one chick, to slip and fall into the Æbleflæsk. Least of all shall he allow harm to come to the shining young Valkyrie whose majestic stature and hearty laugh have captured his romantic’s soul. Considering how enthusiastically the ladies decimate tonight’s “Danish Delights” buffet, his task is not an easy one.

“Thor!” Pierre murmurs to the three lovely, if rather damp ladies in the corner, leaning on his mop and gesturing at the mayhem beyond the windows. Since all three have their cheeks stuffed like hamsters after a famine, they only answer by nodding in unison. The old boy is indeed busy this eve, Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr making a mighty ruckus as they pull his chariot across the skies. Probably a bit late now to offer a fine sacrifice of assorted seafood and ale. Even if the rødspætte is fit for Gods. Once more the warm lights flicker, and but a heartbeat later the thunder seems to rise from the earth itself, sinking into bone and marrow and setting it to vibrate in sympathy. Soft curses in Swedish sound from the next booth over, where other horse people wait out the divine wrath.

At least they made it just in time. Not that the havoc wreaked upon the isle came entirely without warning. When the Valkyries and their new friends embarked on the magical Sønderstrand tour this second afternoon, temperatures had gone from yesterday’s “For fanden! This is my third shower today!” to all out “For helvede! This weather is fit for coconuts and parrots, not mighty Danish warriors!”. But it was less the tropical air which creased Olaf’s brow and made sweaty horses eye the horizon with a mixture of hope and foreboding. They knew, the moment the winds shifted. Which was, of course, a full hour into the tour. The dreaded “point of no return” that every pilot knows, when all you can do is push full throttle and hang on to your underpants. One forgets, in Bavaria’s gentle hills, how rapidly the weather may change near the ocean. How a sky of Caribbean blue can fill with ominous black clouds, racing afore the storm, in what feels like a heartbeat.

It was a charge worthy of song and story, down that vast expanse of sand and seawater, hooves thundering and manes flying like banners. Led by Elder Valkyrie, whose defiant “Forth, Eorlingas!” had the unforeseen side effect of proving that their dignified German companion not only has a sense of humor, but is capable of riding at full gallop while laughing herself into a hiccup. They outraced the tempest, the brave companions did. Barely. For no sooner had they fed and rubbed down their noble steeds and returned them to the herd, than lightning rendered the air in the west and the first fat drops of the deluge formed craters in the dry earth.

600 yards can feel like miles if you’re running into the gale, but they made it. Piling into the restaurant a sodden mess, but they made it. With the kitchens not quite officially in business yet but already turning out the first delights of the evening, and kind Therese rustling up a stack of towels, the gallant riders decided that the Nornir had the right idea. And thus it was that the waterlogged arrivals of the second hour (those few, those valiant few) were greeted by a half-dried bunch in riding attire and towels, already digging into the feast.

“So much for the Seal Safari tomorrow, I suppose.”

“Never say die, sister mine.”

A mighty gust of wind pushes against the windows, and Pierre the Softspoken casts a rueful gaze at some plastic chairs tumbling past outside. The wreckage of a brightly colored parasol bounces behind them, barely visible behind the veil of water.

Mother Valkyrie has spied the dessert emerging from the kitchens and decides that if they are to brave the roiling seas tomorrow, she might as well have some extra Rødgrød on her ice cream. And a glass of that rum. Maybe two. What could possibly go wrong?

(Denmark Lesson the Fifth: Thou shalt seek to emulate the Dane’s Unruffability in All Things. Weather report somehow missed a massive storm brewing? Patio furniture halfway to Sweden? A restaurant smelling of caramel and berries and wet horse? Break open a few bottles and bring out the old guitar. Watch an American teaching a Swede and a Dane the words to “Barrett’s Privateers”. Tell sagas of old; of daring seafarers and dynastic feuds. Have another glass.)    

Picture it…

Havneby, 2016. Silver-grey skies spit a fitful rain down onto a small group of tourists. Last night’s raging tempest has spent its wrath by dawn, but the wind still tugs hard on hair and clothing, and churns the ocean waves. “Det blæser en halv pelican,’ as Olaf notes with a wink of mischief before unloading his three Americans at port. All the same, the faithful little ferry calls for its passengers with an urgent honk. Last chance to back out.

“I have a weird feeling about this.”

“If mother can do it hung over, we don’t exactly have a good excuse.”

“As long as she doesn’t sing about wishing to be in Sherbrooke again, I think I can handle it.”

“Children…”

“Yes?” – “Ja?”

“Never mind. My hair hurts. Shall we?”

“Yo ho and a bottle of rum! I mean, sure.”

Bára, Blóðughadda, Bylgja, and Dúfa; Hefring, Himinglæva, Hrönn, Kólga, and Uðr, all of old Ægir’s girls are out to play. Tossing the stout little ferry this way and that, like kittens with a ball of wool. Somewhere starboard of where mother Valkyrie attempts to find her sea-legs by letting the wind blow the fuzz out of her brain, a green-faced fellow passenger leans over the railing, contemplating the unfairness of the universe. Elder Daughter calmly strolls the deck with a rolling gait, keen eyes scanning the horizon. A sudden downpour shoos everyone inside, but as the ferry bobs and bucks her way into List harbor, a few tentative rays of sunlight peek out behind the clouds.

Well and so. There she sits, the charming old wooden fishing vessel of Seal Safari fame. Swaying cheerfully in her berth, awaiting the last batch of her passengers. Aside from the Americans and the lively Briton, fellow rider and mother’s worthy rival at the breakfast buffet, there are two Germans with skeptical expressions and a half dozen Danish teens with a harried elder in tow.

“Moin!” Helga’s German counterpart Rieke ushers her flock on board, scarcely pausing for breath as she explains the itinerary, ascertains just how many languages she needs to use today, and intersperses with nautical speak and random orders to the placid, amiable captain and crewman.

“Deutsch? Nein? English for you four? Ja gut. Uweeee! Machma hinne!”

“??!”

Taciturn the small crew may be, and move without undue haste, but there can be no doubt of their competence, for in short order the little vessel with the bright red hull plows into the waves. It may be wishful thinking, but it feels to mother Valkyrie as if frothy Uðr is about to call it a day. Not that it helps much when playful Dúfa yet tosses the little boat hither and thither, making the delighted teens tumble over one another with shrieks and laughter, while the stately German couple wrap themselves into Friesian Martens. They appear to be on to something, for the rain has returned in earnest. Out into the endless ocean they venture, water from above, water below, steel grey and cerulean blue. Every now and then excited teens point at motion in the water – an inquisitive porpoise! And there! Was that a dolphin? No, the sturdy young Dane with tawny hair plastered to his temples declares. That was a porpoise calf! Mother will take his word for it, she’s too busy wiping the rain out of her eyes to see aught but glossy humps emerge from the waves.

Roughly an hour and a half at sea and the downpour turned drizzle, Rieke gauges the time right to pull up a few rather startled creatures from the ocean’s bottom to commence the educational part of the journey. Crabs, mussels, snails, and an annoyed starfish are gently lowered into a shallow glass basin for us to fawn over. Of course the Billow Maidens choose this time to sound their final charge of the day. Coming up hard from port, Hefring gives the valiant vessel a playful push and before mother Valkyrie’s bewildered eyes, eight teens and a German journey to starboard in a tangled pile of limbs. Not that the silver-blue eyed young Dane seems much put out, having taken the opportunity to gallantly let himself be landed on by the smallest of the Valkyries (“Lucky,” spake the Elder “what I land on stays landed on!”).

Alas, even as the winds abate bit by bit to a fussy breeze, the rain falls again in fat drops. Not that the seals seem to mind. For yes, there they are, at last. Silvery white and freckled tan Harbor Seals, doughty Grey Seals with broad snouts and quizzical expressions. Lounging on sandbanks, dozing, playing, obviously familiar with the funny red boat bobbing on the gentle waves, winding its way through their territory. A few courtesy barks greet the lively group of waving and shouting biped youngsters. No two arm spans from the hull, a few heads pop out of the water. Lustrous black eyes examine the funny humans, then disappear again.

Drenched nigh to the bone for the second time in under 24 hours, Mother Valkyrie decides it was all more than worth it.

Seal Safari I

(Denmark Lesson the Sixth: Thou shalt not believe the tales that there is such a thing as waterproof clothing. Unless thou ventureth forth in a wetsuit, thou shalt get wet. From the crown of thy head to the soles of thy feet. Yet never fear, for if you don’t like the weather, just wait a bit. An hour, a day, ten minutes. The seas shall rise and calm again, the winds shall scuttle the clouds and then bring new ones. And there will be rainbows, and all the shades of blue and grey you can imagine, and a few more besides. Don’t bother with an umbrella, though. Sweden has already declared they’ve more than enough of them, thank you kindly. Even if the Briton’s fancy orange one was rather fetching). 

Seal Safari II

It is, naturally, on the way back to port that the skies clear for long enough to peel out of oilskins and not-so-waterproof-after-all jackets, and expose damp shirts and sodden hair to the summer sun. The utterly smitten young Dane briefly loses his capacity for speech when the slender youngest Valkyrie reveals her “Screw the prince, I’ll take the horse!” t-shirt. Unless “Wstfgl!” is a Danish sound of appreciation for white cotton plastered to an unexpectedly feminine shape.

If mother had been asked, she would have placed bets that at least one of the lively teenagers shall take a bath before the day is done. Not that a bit of extra saltwater would make a great difference by now. But as the little vessel glides back into harbor on only playfully ruffled seas, and all the passengers reach dry land safely, it is once more proven that she’d make a lousy Völva. Yet the Fates are not so easily cheated. All it takes is a bereft Briton, mourning the ill fortune of his second favorite umbrella, and an inconvenient bit of concrete waylaying said distracted traveler, pitching him inexorably over the edge. And a charitable Valkyrie with a trained warrior’s reflexes and the grace and elegance of a one legged goose.

It is astonishing, mother muses while treading water, how cultured even the most vicious curses sound in that accent. It is however difficult to determine whether he is protesting the fact he was safely, if firmly, deposited on terra firma on his hind end, or feels wounded in his sense of chivalry. Maybe both? Just as mother opens her mouth to apologize for the rescue gone slightly awry, Elder Shieldmaiden waves from above, her expression somewhat unsurprised.

“Nicely done, mother. That half spin with minor lift was inspired.”

“I was aiming for a Rittberger, but thank you. Now would you mind…”

“Coastguard is coming. I don’t want to disappoint the guys, they look so happy someone fell in right in front of their noses.”

“Ah. Can’t have that, can we.”

“Also, I heard they give people grog after they fish them out.”

“I knew I raised smart children.”

 

(The legend, it turns out, is quite true. While usually not applicable to someone who merely fell into the harbor on a valiant errand, the good Captain of the Pidder Lüng was amused enough to make an exception. This, combined with the beers which the fine British gentleman insisted on buying for his impromptu rescuer, made for a rather jolly ferry-ride home to Rømø. And lest it be supposed that the younger Shieldmaidens are heartless and unmoved by their dam’s plight: They’re just used to it. “Can’t take her anywhere, but she’s got the credit cards” used to it). 

Seal Safari III

Vafthruthnir spake:
“In an eagle’s guise | at the end of heaven
Hræsvelg sits, they say;
And from his wings | does the wind come forth
To move o’er the world of men.”

 

The Saga will continue as the dauntless explorers once more set out across the isle, with steeds of steel and those with hooves. Facing untold dangers from land, sea and air, they walk the Allfather Óðinn’s path and learn an awful lot of things. Mostly, what not to do.

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Where the Viking Horses Roam ~ The Denmark Saga, Verse III

Find part II of the Saga here.

 

“Welp, that’s one way to stand out.”

Thus spake the youngest Valkyrie, her lambent eyes dancing with mirth. For so it was, that the three fair ladies were garbed in cloth unlike that of other riders come to choose their noble steeds. Not tall boots nor fine linens, not helmets black as raven’s feather. Of the far West their colors sing, of lands beyond the waves…

Hej! Olaf’s Americans?”

“I sense a theme here.”

“Hush, you. Yes, ma’am, the very same.”

“No madam. Just Helga.”

“Oh, like Floki’s…”

“Sister heart, if you start humming the Vikings theme song I shall clobber you with the poop rake I see hence!”

“It is well,” spake fair Helga “I rather like the series.”

“I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship!”

Gleði
“For Fanden, it’s hot today!” – spake Gleði the Horse

Picture it: Rømø, 2016. A sunlit courtyard, a dozen-and-four horse people milling about, taking in the beauty of their surroundings. Barns and stables painted a cheerful red, a little house containing a break room and another which holds the saddles, bridles, brushes and myriad minutiae of the horse world. And an Olaf. One who, unbeknownst to the happily exploring ladies outside, is picking three cards from a shelf to reserve the horses pictured thereon. With the solemn gravity of a warrior preparing for battle, he checks stirrups and reins, saddle pads and girths.

The ladies meanwhile are busy admiring the 60 horse strong herd beyond the barns. Dozing or lazily nibbling at the grass in the afternoon’s heat, there are Icelandic Horses of every color known to man. A Shire Horse, peeking shyly at the humans from behind a cluster of little Vikings half her size. Two familiar donkeys, heads buried in a pile of hay, their clever eyes picking out the apple-donating humans from earlier. ‘No bicycles with baskets’, one admonishes with a swish of his tail. ‘Still’, the other thoughtfully twists his ears ‘one never knows with bipeds. If one falls down, check for carrots. But quickly, before the horses catch on’.

Effortlessly switching between three languages, tall Helga with the eyes blue as summer skies sorts the bipedal herd into three groups: beginner, intermediate, advanced. Shiny black boots, sturdy paddock boots, and a lone pair of Wellies attached to a sprightly Briton shuffle obediently. Who needs longboats and axes when you have a Helga with a cheerful smile and firm contralto voice? The Americans, already set apart by their cotton shirts and soft, worn jeans falling over robust Western boots, are gently herded towards the tack room. “Olaf has the halters for your ponies. He does advanced group today.”

Advanced. Oh, dear.

Mother’s meek protest dies in her throat as the youngest Valkyrie drags her onward by the elbow with a satisfied harrumph. She for one hasn’t come to sedately plod along the worn paths. Oh, no! It is adventure she seeks, elated flight across the endless horizons! Older daughter, once more the image of her grandsire’s equanimity and aplomb, follows with a quiet smile. This should be interesting.

(Denmark Lesson the Third: Thou shalt not underestimate the Dane’s capacity for mischief. Even if your trusted coach called ahead to inform her old friend of your riding abilities and preferences. Especially then.)

“So, little one. You take the little stallion. He’s a very nice boy. And you, you have Happy. Not so fast as your mare back home I think, but who is?”

Two down, mother yet to go. Two cards are laid out on the table, one depicting a sleek black horse with proud eyes and a mane that would make a Friesian eat his own halter in a fit of envy; one showing a tall, flaxen-maned chestnut with a cheerful expression. Incidentally, all three cards bear a small red mark on the back. This can’t be good, can it?

“For mother I have Little Red. She likes quiet hands. Then she flies like a greased owl.”

“I’m not sure I want to know what that means.”

“You will.”

The third card is unveiled. Another chestnut mare, blonde mane over auburn coat, and the devil in her eyes.

(Non-Horse-People note: Quiet Hands as opposed to Loud Hands describes a rider with a light, calm touch on the reins, and a tendency to give subtle cues rather than wave brightly colored signaling flags while the horse is shouting “I heard you the first time dammit!!”. Not surprisingly horses tend to prefer Quiet Hands, and it has been mine own consistent and often only saving grace when otherwise I’ve annoyed my horses in each and every other way possible).

1st Ride
Everyone follow me, I’m the person with the least clue where we’re going!

Greased Owl (/ɡriːs aʊl/): Not a nocturnal bird of prey after an encounter with a vat of butter. Rather, a five-gaited equine exhibiting an ability to fly low and at great velocity, giving the impression of gliding across the landscape like a merciless hunter, while any fortunate and/or terrified passenger holds on for dear life. Reaches full Grease potential in the Flugskeið on account of smoothly achieving speeds to which the Laws of Physics shrug and declare “Don’t look at us, we had nothing to do with it!”

1st Ride II
“I like this place and willingly could waste my time in it” – (Act II, Scene IV)

It is a small group that leaves the courtyard under the guidance of fair Olaf and his jovial grey gelding. Having properly introduced themselves to their fine steeds with a friendly brushing and a careful pre-flight check under Helga’s approving gaze, the Valkyries have saddled up and mounted. They are joined by two more riders, an elegant German lady and a merry Swede with an amazing gift of foresight -he brought snacks!

A slight breeze from the east ruffles hair and manes as they turn inland, seeking the shade of tall trees. A crosswalk specifically marked for horses allows them to cross the main road, indulgently watched by Danish drivers. As their small group leisurely walks and tölts through groves of Scotch pine and birch, mother Valkyrie begins to relax. The harmony between elder daughter and her spirited mare is obvious, and youngest bringing up the rear with her lively stallion is glowing brightly enough to put the summer sun to shame. A match made in Valhalla, those two are. Or rather, two bundles of mischief who have found their soulmate. Mighty Loki himself better hold on to his shirt, for those two would steal the apples straight from his pockets and leave him in the dust.

Of course, mother should have known better than to dismiss Murphy and his Law quite so quickly.

(Denmark Lesson the Fourth: Thou shalt not fall asleep at the reins! Not even if you’ve gotten along with your horse in such spectacular fashion that the bold little mare seems to respond to a fleeting thought. Especially then). 

No sooner does the merry group emerge from the trees onto a flat expanse where tall grass sways in the lazy breeze, than Olaf turns in the saddle with a grin, and six little horses prick their ears. Some words float through the air that seems to shimmer in a warm, golden light – “…ok to pass,” it sounds like in Olaf’s pleasant baritone, and “…line up again at dunes”. There might be more words, but they’re drowned by a triumphant yee-HAAAW and the sudden thundering of hooves as something sleek, black, and fleet-footed whooshes past mother Valkyrie. Proud Sörli Jonakrson and his Shieldmaiden, it seems, did not need to be told twice.

Meanwhile, mother’s noble steed gives a few experimental canter hops, and when no negating signal from her nonplussed rider counters her initiative, Little Red concludes it is Go Time. As in, “I’ll show that swaggering stallion how it’s done!” Go Time.

There is a sound one makes, usually involuntarily, when sudden and unexpectedly rapid acceleration occurs. The kind of acceleration that presses you into your seat as a jetplane’s engines roar full throttle at liftoff. The kind that makes you instinctively and desperately seek a deeper seat in the saddle as a five gaited Viking ignites the afterburner and switches to Flying Pace. No, not this sound. The “HHNFFNNNFFF!!” one. Somehow, some way, it must have sounded like “Hraðar!”, or “Hurtig!” To the fiery blonde, already vexed by the sight of five luxurious tails waving in front of her, it is all the encouragement she needs. And besides, her rider’s seat moved into excellent alignment upon the switch to flugskeið, so she must be in full agreement that more speed is called for. Right? Right.

Somehow that plain looked a lot larger 10 seconds ago. And where did the other horses go? The black one is still there, and the chipper pinto with his Swede is just ahead… never mind. Was ahead. As mother finally wraps her head around the idea that a gentle tug on the reins might not go amiss, a bunch of hardy shrubs that looked a lot smaller 15 seconds ago loom larger and larger with worrisome speed. In order to overtake the proud stallion who is so joyously stretching his legs, Little Red must swerve just a tad to the right…

“Shrub!” the laughing elder Shieldmaiden warns from somewhere not far behind.

“Aih know!” Mother Valkyrie attempts to holler back, but opening her mouth at this juncture was precisely the wrong thing to do. As impromptu snacks go, Danish shrubbery leaves somewhat to be desired.

Little Red for her part has elegantly ducked beneath the twigs and is now expressing her extreme satisfaction at having her nose level with stallion’s withers by ways of a cheerful snort. Absentmindedly chewing on a leaf, mother realizes several things at once:

Those dunes look awfully close.

This is what Olaf meant with “greased”.

This is a fast horse.

I am an idiot.

Awfully close.

Right. Reins. Tug. “But I almost had him!” (reluctant reduction of speed) – Sternly brace lower back. Tug. “Unh, fine. Don’t come crying to me when he gloats, though!” (smooth transition to tölt, walk) – Relax. Praise. “That’s right. I am the wind, the flame, the buttered owl! You may worship my magnificence!” (soft snort, nod). 

It is astonishingly easy to come to a gentle halt to await the arrival of the rest of the cavalry once one remembers how to ride, rather than be a delighted yet utterly befuddled passenger. With twigs in her hair.

“Shrubs to left of her, shrubs to right of her, volleyed and thundered…”

“… boldly she rode and well, into the jaws of … uh, shrubs.”

“Children?”

“Yes?” – “Ja?”

“Shut it.”

First Ride III
“You go ahead, then you have no horse bum in the photo, eh?” (-Olaf)

Picture it…

Six horses, an endless beach, hooves splashing in the surf. A little stallion prances and nickers playfully. The riders are chatting and laughing after an hour long trek along the coastline, cantering, trotting, walking, tölting. There has been another brief race, and a most welcome break in the dunes when a smart Swede handed out cookies (instantly becoming elder Valkyrie’s new best buddy) and Olaf produced bottles of water and paper cups from his saddlebag (instantly becoming mother Valkyrie’s hero). Far too soon, it feels, they are turning back. Through another copse of trees, through meadows, eastwards across the isle, down another beach.

“So. Greased owl, huh?”

“With extra grease” Olaf smiles, “when she likes you.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

The mighty Dane with the golden beard shrugs. “Last one she put in the roses.”

Now he tells me.

First Ride IV
Good people, watch out for the mud! The mud, I say! Oh dear…

“Glath and Gyllir, | Gler and Skeithbrimir,
Silfrintopp and Sinir,
Gisl and Falhofnir, | Golltopp and Lettfeti,
On these steeds the gods shall go
When dooms to give | each day they ride
To the ash-tree Yggdrasil.”

 

The Saga continues as the fair Valkyries continue to explore the isle, brave mighty storms and Thor’s own wrath, discover priceless treasures, and somehow find the time for mead, song, and romantic interludes characterized by much confusion, Bells and Alarums, and in one case, an unexpected bath.

Winter Has Come

(I do apologize for the blatant GoT reference while simultaneously stating that I do not own any rights to the trademark or franchise, nor, sadly, a Direwolf.) 

 

Winter. Once upon a time that season was greeted with dread. Winter meant a struggle to survive. A slow and agonizing death for those who did not have enough food put away during the time of plenty, or who did not ration wisely, or were simply unlucky. For some, a quicker death if you got caught in a storm, or an avalanche, trying to supplement your dwindling rations by hunting. And if the snow and the cold didn’t get you, disease and exhaustion and malnutrition were just waiting their turn.

Since the advent of central heating and supermarkets, with airplanes flying in fresh apples from New Zealand and 18-wheelers carting guacamole even deep into the Great White North, “Winter Is Coming” has lost its terror. It is even anticipated with joy – at least it always was by me, perhaps not so much by my dad, who every year dragged the snowblower out of the shed while mumbling astonishingly creative bad words (under his breath of course, so I would not hear. And of course I did, and marveled at his artistry).

DEFCON cucumber, aka “throw on another layer and the BIG hat!”

Winter meant pond hockey, hot chocolate, and a magical forest covered in glittering white.

Maybe that’s why ‘Snowflake’ is deemed such a cute insult. Who fears Winter? Well, maybe Texas does, considering the “The End is Nigh!” panic on social media and every single Interstate as soon as an errant cloud accidentally drops some deadly crystals.

Anatomy of a Snowflake

This particular insult has puzzled me since the first time I heard it, and in the beginning I only derived from the context that it was, in fact, meant as a slight. I mean, they’re pretty, right? Awww you think I’m exquisite, and intricate, and I refract light in tantalizing ways, and I look awesome in closeup pictures? Why, thank you!

A short while ago a young man decided to vent his frustration with the world at large and the female population in particular in the direction of my older daughter. What started as clumsy attempts to get her attention and assert his masculinity by wolf-whistling and strutting around like a rooster with to basketballs pressed to his chest (the latter earned him a “Ru would be proud” comment from the target’s younger sister), quickly deteriorated into becoming an all out nuisance. The unholy trinity of familiar bullshit, from mocking the very physical traits he had glorified earlier (aka “If I can’t touch this radiantly magnificent bosom, I shall now declare I never liked it in the first place”), to questioning the attached young woman’s character (aka “Only a mean and stupid woman would reject me!”), to the carpet bombing of blaming everything and everyone other than himself (aka “If not for evil Feminazis and Liberals my crude advances would be enthusiastically reciprocated!”)

Well, no. Like her mother, the young lady with the Mae West figure and the brains to match the cleavage, does not respond well to rudeness. Unlike her mother, she remained serene in her responses. And was declared a “Snowflake” for telling the young man that he was being vulgar and hurtful.

It got me thinking.

pucksmiley

A 17 year old military brat (and if you’re not familiar with the slang, ‘brat’ in this context is a tender endearment), a hockey-playing, horseback-riding cowgirl who could shoot the wings off a gnat at 300 yards but cries when a dog dies in a movie, a soul so gentle she lets her mother win at Monopoly every damn time, who bakes Christmas cookies for soldiers who are away from their families and unable to get home for the Holidays, who could have planted this rude boy on his hind end with one good shove but chose to politely point out that he was being an equus asinus … is a snowflake.

Well. Alright.

To be sure, this one’s a Northern Snowflake (“You better get your scarf and mittens, dude, where I come from the snow don’t play” – sic) . The kind that rides a blizzard down from the Arctic and delivers a few Canadian pines to your doorstep before settling on your roof along with a few billion buddies. Best get shoveling before the cousins show up. They look fluffy and harmless and very pretty, but only until that roof caves in. Do trust me on that one.

A Tale of Ice and Fire 

Now, my stalwart teenager may not have solved her ‘persistent bully problem’, but her wintry cool response allowed me to look at the situation from a different angle.

Here I was, ready to cover my baby’s six at her “Need backup!” call and breathe fire and doom upon that hapless lad smaugwho felt entitled to her attention, and resorted to increasingly crude and abusive tactics when it did not materialize (cue Smaug: “I am FIRE! I am DEATH!”). Here was my younger daughter, channeling her Norse ancestry (95 lbs of Viking fury sounds funny – until it comes straight at you). Here were the high school teachers poised to intervene and chastise the luckless suitor turned bully, and last but far from least, my daughter’s friends and teammates, ready to unleash a blizzard that would warrant a state of emergency in 47 States (and at least an annoyed “Eh!” in Canada).

It was not needed.

Because there is something terribly sad about the “Suck it up, Buttercup!” and “Fuck your feelings!” crowd. About the raging and ranting and the “I’m just blunt and you can’t deal with it!” cries. There is a hurt in there somewhere, a helplessness, and – so my daughter mused when I expressed my marvel at her composure – perhaps a fear of those feelings we’re supposed to ‘suck up’. A fear that allowing yourself to feel, to have empathy, to show but a flicker of insecurity, would instantly deflate the carefully constructed facade of strength. And then one would see the boy who simply doesn’t know how to talk to the adored young lady, who’s terrified of rejection, and whom noone has ever taught about honey and vinegar. About the courage to show your softer side, and the strength one finds at the heart of vulnerability.

Image result for elsa frozen
Perfectly harmless Snowflake

It’s so much easier to double down on the bluster and the anger than to deal with the feelings of “I wanted her to like me but I’ve hurt her”. So much easier to shift the blame to the perceived ‘snowflake’ for not being able to handle a strong, masculine personality. So much harder to admit “I was being an ass to her, and that’s why she doesn’t want anything to do with me”.

I might not be able to summon the same compassion as my Snowflake for this angry, rude young man. I still think he would greatly benefit from a right ding behind the ear, preferably administered by the collected works of Lord Byron. But I can see where she’s coming from. Or rather, where she stands. On her frozen plain, being a lovely, glittering bit of frozen water, and quite content with it. Just don’t insult her on the other ice. The one where pucks fly. That’s when all bets are off and she will surpass her grandsire’s creativity in unleashing utterly majestic expletives. In three languages.

Let it Snow!

It’s -14ºC in Germany today, or about 6ºF. For three ladies hailing from the Adirondacks, that means one extra layer of flannel, and the good boots when walking the fluffy dog.

A fine, crisp cold that nonetheless creeps into your bones and reminds you why our ancestors didn’t mess around with Winter. That even with our sturdy walls and readily available fuel to heat them, even with our internal combustion engines that tirelessly bring food and supplies, even with mighty power plants, we are not quite so safe as we like to think. When the sap freezes in the trees and only the bitter wind breaks the deadly silence of the forest, that bright white blanket of snowflakes is still beautiful. But you don’t feel inclined to call it harmless.

Said the youngest of the ladies, her breath forming small clouds in the crystal clear air: “This ain’t no joke, brother. Yegawds. You two keep going if you want, the dog and I have enough brains to go home and hide under the furs. Auf Wiedersehen!”

February 2018 - Snowlflakes