The seventies had just begun, an exciting new decade that saw me sliding into adulthood. Literally sliding this day on treacherous streets through blowing snow, trying to get home in one of those March blizzards that is winter’s last kick.

We were a small group from Concordia University struggling to get up the steep hill that was Côte des Neiges, aptly named ‘hill of snow.’ It was rough going but our intrepid little group soldiered on, bearing the brunt of winter’s last gasp. It was my birthday, and celebrations were to be had!

If we made it up to Decelles, we would go our separate ways. But after trudging uphill for over an hour, we were only at Cedar Ave., a mere kilometer of the four to home. It seemed hopeless. But for a vital 20 year-old full of fizzing hormones anything was possible, I would meet up with my boyfriend or die trying.

The streets were deserted, and the snow had tamped down all the usual city noise. It was so quiet that our own shrieks and giggles echoed in the air as we slid, and slipped, and threw snowballs at each other. We scoffed at the mountain of snow that we had to conquer, undaunted until we were exhausted.

Then we saw fuzzy headlights in the distance. Was it a mirage? We became animated again, jumping up and down and waving our arms to be rescued. The vehicle cautiously inched its way down the hill until we could make out a station wagon that looked like my father’s!

Indeed, it was my father’s Country Squire that skidded sideways as he applied the brakes and stopped right in front of us. Joy and jubilation ensued. The steamy windows had obscured all the passengers already inside. With no seats left, we piled into the back like sardines. Apparently, my father was driving down to Concordia to try to find me and my brother and had picked up stranded strangers on the way. Even though it was stiflingly warm inside the car, with the cloying smell of wet wool and body odour, the mood was merry. It seemed that my party was already underway, but the best was yet to come.

Our station wagon shuttle slowly maneuvered its way west, dropping passengers off along the way until my father and I, along with three extras, finally arrived home.

There was already a lot of activity in the house. My mother had brought a colleague home from work, my brother and his girlfriend had just arrived, and the phone was ringing nonstop. I could smell cake baking. Everyone was happy to be warm and safe, except me.

Where was my boyfriend?

Whatever murky light there had been in the early afternoon had gone and as the evening turned dark, I worried that I would miss celebrating my birthday with him.

Then, around 7:00 o’clock, the door flew open and there he was! Disheveled, shivering, and his kinky afro was topped with a layer of snow like icing on a cake. Icicles dangled from his beard. Heart throbs and wet kisses melted it all away.

I don’t know how he managed it, but my hero arrived with a bottle of champagne and a dozen droopy, frostbitten roses. The celebration was now official with the popping of the cork, which hit the ceiling lamp and shattered it to pieces.

Mazel Tov!