Snow in Summertime

Journal of Family Practice, July, 2000 by Anthony Valdini

Before the next house call, I talked it over with my wife and then with my 8-year-old son. I told him we were going to the beach to see a grandpa and grandma who knew all about him. They were sick and couldn't always get to my office. We would take my black bag and get hot dogs on the way back.

On the way, the 2 of us rode in the big station wagon and talked about how neat it would be to live at the beach. When we were a few miles away he noticed the smell. "Daddy! You can smell the ocean," he said. I took in a few deep breaths and wondered whether anything could be better than the bright sun, blue sky, and a drive to the beach together.

The visit was fun. My son sat in the kitchen with the person who was not being examined, drawing pictures. Rose in her wheelchair was a little frightening at first, but her voice and kind face soon drew him in. She gave him a little plastic liquid-filled diorama of a farm with snowflakes and showed him how to create weather. After the business of the house call came the business of "giving the kid some ice cream." Grandparents need to feed children. It's the playing out of their role, and a soup bowl filled with vanilla ice cream and orange sorbet was the proof.

When it was time to leave, Frank and Rose insisted on stretching the visit. They led us into their small living room (3 televisions, because 2 were broken) and pulled out a faded pink-and-white photo album. They placed the album on our laps. Inside were black-and-white pictures from "before the war." Mostly they were shots of Rose and Frank dancing. Not just waltzing around someone's parlor in street clothes--they were dressed to the nines! Frank with slicked back hair and Rose with dark curls surrounding her lovely face and a white flower behind her ear looked unbelievably young. Rose wore a frilly party dress with long white gloves and high heels, and Frank wore a tuxedo with tails. I couldn't hide my wonder. "We didn't always look like this," Rose informed me, smiling understandingly. Frank said they would dance every week in ballrooms, contests, and just for fun. "We were pretty good," he added. Riding home my son shook the plastic toy saying, "Look Daddy, it's snowing in the summertime!" I smiled while visions of a graceful young Rose and a dapper Frank whirled and dipped through my imagination.

Rose died in her sleep a few weeks later, and Frank was lost. He left the stove on, didn't bathe, and called his son and 911 so often that within 6 months he was in a nursing home.

Sixteen years later, on a stifling August day, we sat awaiting the ceremony. I was between my wife and son. All around us in the church were nuns. Hundreds of holy women in gray, blue, pink, and black habits. There was even a contingent dressed in flowing white with blue stripes, like Mother Theresa. It was so hot that sweat dripped off the faces of those gathered to remember the miracle.

The church of Santa Maria Maggiore was built on a location marked by the Blessed Virgin. The story goes that she told a pope in a dream that she would let him know where she wanted her church. On August 5, snow fell on a hill in Rome. We sat in that place awaiting a recreation of the event.