A Tale of Two Winters The '80's were the best of times and the worst of times. This tale recants two different snowstorms and events that transpired therein. Back in the Midwood section of the Flatbush neighborhood of Brooklyn, New York, my husband and I lived in a two-story brownstone. Our neighbor, an old woman, would see us entering and leaving the house and call out insults and racial slurs. Mrs. Brown, an old, yellowed figure with yellow, wrinkled skin and yellow hair with blue eyes, lived alone with a cat and her only son visited her on occasion. Her apparent hatred for us stemmed from some deep, unknown origin. Completely unwarranted, she would see me and yell out to me: "How will you feed your baby?" She would more often spit and yell out single word names at my husband. I of course did not reply but wondered how a person can harbor so much hatred for people he or she does not know. In December of 1982, when I was six months pregnant, there was a snowstorm. It was Friday night and my husband and I sat in our living room with my sister, who came to us for the weekend. From our living room windows, sipping hot cocoa, we watched the wind blowing the huge flakes of snow at considerable speed. We could see the snowflakes glowing in the light of the streetlamp. As the evening wore on, the wind accelerated and except for white swirls and snowcovered car tops, which we called igloos, we saw nothing. Suddenly we heard a crack and before we could say anything, the tree that stood midcenter in front of our house began to sway. The crack widened and it fell, not on our house but at an angle, on Mrs. Brown's house, it's branches leaning on her windows, blocking her porch and barricading her from opening her front door. Its trunk, lying across the shared driveway between our houses, also prevented access to the street from her back door. The weather and weekend prohibited her access to the outside of her house, as it was not until Monday of the following week that she would have the tree cleared and again be able to function outside her house in a normal fashion. Such events are classified by authorities and insurance companies as acts of God. Indeed, we felt that for her unjust behavior, God certainly did intervene. Though Mrs. Brown is probably no longer alive, I felt that she deserved the damage and inconvenience and of course, would most probably somehow blame us and hate us even more. Unfortunately, Mrs. Brown never came around or liked us and living next door to her was far from pleasant but that winter night does stand out in my memory. Later that decade, in the winter of 1988, there was a huge blizzard that befell New York with most serious traffic advisories and storm warnings. I worked in midtown Manhattan and lived in a rented apartment in Brooklyn, near the College. It was Friday and my weekend with my four and a half year old son who lived in the custody of his father. Listening to the radio and looking out the window, I decided to phone my ex-husband to coordinate my estimated time of arrival at his home so that he would phone ahead and order me a car service to transport our young son and me home. Michael refused so coolly that butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. He reasoned that when I would arrive, I may phone and order a car service. I departed the train station at Avenue M and in my leather bag, carried bread and other food bought for the weekend, on the way from work. Walking as fast as possible, considering the snow that already prevented a considerable amount of visibility, I was concerned that the car service and taxi companies would close early. The walk to Michael's house was not very far but the snow and wind presented both, an obstacle and a hazard. At 3:30 PM, the time estimated, I rang the doorbell and when Michael opened the door, asked Michael whether he had ordered a car service for me and he gestured me upstairs to phone. Upon phoning I was told a car would arrive. Some minutes later, looking out the front door of the house and seeing less and less traffic, I went back upstairs to phone again but this time there was no answer. Frantically, I phoned other car service companies but nobody had any cars and most did not even answer. I had to think quickly because it was getting dark. The parked cars were buried under snow that was hardening with the dropping temperature and setting sun. Turning to Michael, I told him to Bundle Jason up for we would walk the 35 blocks to my apartment. He refused to let me take my son, for sunset marked the beginning of the Sabbath and Michael, who did not carry objects outside the home on the Sabbath, explained that he did not want his son to be seen walking with someone carrying bags. Turning to look at my little one bundled on the stairs waiting to spend the weekend with me, I choked back tears and hugged and kissed him, saying that we would see one another later and that he could not come with me. His small expectant face accompanied me on the long walk home with the snow completely dampening my coat, through to my skin. I arrived home with numb fingers and toes, immediately changed into dry clothes, sat down and cried. I cried in pain and frustration, at the cold cruelty of my son's father who could simply have phoned the car service a few minutes earlier so that the car would arrive the same time that I did. A simple act of kindness and consideration that did not involve any great effort was beyond him. Incredible.