Taking the Plunge

Four foot tall snow drifts lined the parking lot of our Alaskan tenement also known as Navy housing.  My mother wanted us to get out in the snow, but she was worried that we might get sick in all the wet snow.  I still remember the plastic baggies she put under my mittens, thinking that would stop the wet part of snow from getting to my skin.  She is from Missouri, so we'll cut her slack on that one.
Venturing out onto my five foot tall porch, I surveyed the white snow dunes.  As a five year old adventurer, the possibilities seemed endless.  I could have made a snowman, a fort, a car, a mountain, or even angels.  But first, I thought, how cool it was that I could jump into that four foot tall pile of snow by my steps.  Being only three feet in height, it seemed like the ultimate plunge.  I raised my hands, shouted "Sitting Bull!" or some other Native American hero's name, and dove feet first into the soft white powder.  At least it looked soft.  In fact, it was thick and stiff.  The snow seemed to consume me. I tried to move my arms and legs, but could not budge.  At first, I wanted to cry for help, but that would have been to embarrassing.  Plus, my mom would probably not let me out again.  Perhaps the snow would melt, I naively thought, and I would get loose eventually.
Just then, four hands reached down and grabbed my jacket. My older brother and sister saw my pathetic plunge and came to rescue me.  Neither told my mother, but instead let me come play in the fort they were building.  I was often a loner as a kid, but that day, I was glad I had siblings.