National Story Project
with Paul Auster

November 2001 -- Paul Auster reads a story from Juliana C. Nash of New York City.

Listen to Paul Auster read Snow.

Find out where Paul Auster and NPR's Jacki Lyden will be appearing to talk about the book and its contributors.

Snow

I knew it was snowing before I opened my eyes. I could hear the sounds of shovels scraping against the sidewalks, and there was that special quiet in the air that comes when snow is falling in the city. I ran to the windows in the front room to have a look at the block - my domain. It must have been very early. None of my friends had made it to the street; only janitors were moving about in the knee-deep snow. Relieved that I hadn't missed anything, I became aware that my sisters and brothers were now awake. I had no time to waste. If I hurried, I could be out there before any of my friends.

I dressed myself in an assortment of hand-me-down winter woolens, but there would be no mittens to keep my hands warm. I had lost them earlier in the season. I was in a real dither as to what to put on my feet; my shoes no longer fit into my rubber galoshes. I could wear shoes or galoshes, but not both. I decided to go with two pairs of socks and the galoshes.

As I was buckling them, I felt the presence of someone standing over me. It was my big brother, Lenny. He asked me if I wanted to go ice-skating at the indoor rink in Madison Square Garden. I immediately scrapped my other plans. My thirteen-year-old brother was actually asking me, his nine-year-old sister, to go ice skating with him. Go? Of course I would go. But where would we get the money? Lenny said it would cost a dollar to get in and rent the skates. Only two obstacles stood between me and going skating with my brother - the Blizzard of 1948 and one dollar. The blizzard I could handle - it was the dollar that presented the problem.

The quest began. We returned some milk bottles, asked our mother for a nickel, begged our father for a quarter apiece, collected a penny or two from coat pockets, discovered two coins that had rolled under the beds, and spotted a rare stray dime nestled in a corner of one of the six rooms in our cold-water railroad flat.

Eventually, fortified with a bowl of hot oatmeal, and jamming hard-earned coins into our pockets, we set out on the twenty block journey - a city mile.

The wind-driven snow clung to every surface. Lenny and I pretended that we were in the Alps as we climbed over the three-foot mounds of snow that had been shoveled to the curbs. It was our world now - a myriad of tiny snowflakes had shut down the city and kept the adults indoors. The skyscrapers were invisible behind a white veil of snow, and we could almost imagine that New York had been scaled down for us. We could walk right down the middle of Third Avenue with no fear of being run over. It was hard to contain our joy, the incredible sense of freedom we felt out there in the snow.

The twelve blocks to 49th Street weren't difficult, but the long cross-town streets proved to be chilling. The harsh west winds blowing off the Hudson River made it almost impossible to push forward. I could no longer keep up with my brother. My playful imaginings were replaced by the gnawing cold of my feet. My head was uncovered, my mittenless hands were clenched in my pockets, and a few of the clasps on my galoshes had worked loose. I began to complain gently, not wanting to make a nuisance of myself because I was afraid that Lenny wouldn't ask me to go anywhere with him again.

Somewhere near Fifth Avenue, we stopped in a doorway to take refuge. I timidly told Lenny that my clasps were open. Lenny took his bare red hands out of his pockets and bent down to refasten the snow-crusted, icy metal clasps. Ashamed that Lenny had to take care of me, I stared straight ahead and saw the image of a man walking toward us through the chiffon curtain of snow.

I was unable to tell how old he was - all adults seemed the same age to me - but he was tall, thin, and had a gentle, handsome face. He wore no hat. There was a scarf around his neck, and his overcoat, like ours, was caked with snow.

I don't remember if he spoke to me or not. What I do recall is that he kneeled down before me, his face level with mine. I found myself gazing into soft brown eyes, feeling bewildered and mute. When he was gone, I felt his warmth in the soft wine-colored scarf he wrapped tightly around my head.

I don't remember ice skating that day, or how we got home. All my memory holds is the snow, the kindness of a stranger, and my big brother Lenny.

– Juliana C. Nash
New York, N.Y.