Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

Feb. 8, 2003: Snow Day

My mom, on a snow day

Judging by the state of most of my neighbors' cars, which still appear to be snowed in, everybody took a snow day yesterday.

Of course, being a telecommuter, snow days are meaningless. I was working.

I did get out a couple times, at my dog's insistence, and I could see the neighborhood children were having a great time. Some of them perched behind a snow wall they'd created in their front yard, waiting for victims to pelt with snowballs.

"Let's get that girl," one of them said when he saw me.

But I looked at them and smiled, and they thought better of it. They didn't know I was smiling at being called a "girl." So much better than "ma'am."

For the last few years, people in the Central Pennsylvania town where I grew up have been complaining about not getting enough snow. It didn't feel right, they said. This wasn't how winter was supposed to be. Hopefully, this winter's snow bounty has satisfied them. Of course, now they're probably all complaining about the snow.

This morning I shoveled out my truck, knowing I had plans for later. Of course, I happened to be shoveling just as an elderly neighbor was waiting for some friends to pick her up. She asked me to shovel out a path to her driveway. I agreed, since I'm a softy, and when the car pulled up, I had almost cleared the desired path. But not, unfortunately, enough to allow them to pull into the driveway.

The elderly ladies all smiled and thanked me anyway. The thought, apparently, was enough.

I remember how exciting snow days used to be, listening to the radio in the mornings, waiting to hear whether we'd get to stay home.

When the eagerly awaited snow days came, we would put on our snowmobile suits and go sledding. Since Mom wasn't working back then, she'd make us hot cocoa when we got home. There was nothing so cozy as sipping hot chocolate and watching cartoons while your boots get nice and toasty on the radiator.

The snow is still pretty enough, when I don't have to drive in it. And my dog gets so excited about it, I can't help but get a little excited with her. She runs around the backyard, playfully, her face lit up with joy.

Last time it snowed, it was only a light dusting and many of my neighbors didn't bother to shovel. They seemed to expect it to melt on its own, despite the freezing temperatures. So when Una and I went for a walk, she'd get powdery snow stuck between her footpads and would start limping. I had to brush out the snow and hold her paw in my gloved hand, to warm it.

Yes, I'm a sucker for dogs in distress.

When I was a reporter, I hated the snow, because "snow day" had an entirely different meaning. While everyone else was safely snuggled at home, enjoying a temporary respite, we were busier than ever, zipping out to get pictures of people shoveling or children making snowmen, or in unhappier moments, covering accidents.

One of my fellow reporters once got into an accident on her way to cover an accident. The editor was upset, because we got scooped.

Now that I'm no longer in that job, I can enjoy my snow days again, though I'm long past my sledriding days. It's fun sometimes to see how different things look with all that white stuff on them. Including the trash.

The garbage truck usually comes Friday mornings, and everybody puts their trash out the night before. And even though most of us had heard the snow was coming, I don't think anyone knew how much. The garbage collectors, quite naturally, took a snow day.

So all around the neighborhood there are lumps on the lawn, where a good six inches of snow covers the lonely trash bags. Maybe that's why my dog is so particularly interested in sniffing the snow.

One of my favorite snow memories is when the neighorhood children got together one year and on the triangle-shaped green at the town's center -- which we creatively called The Triangle — we combined forces to build a snow village. It had forts and tunnels and castles. For weeks, until the weather warmed, we spent our time there, compulsively expanding the village.

This was one of the few times kids from the two different school districts played together. The main street of our town was the dividing line between two townships and two school districts. Even though we recognized the kids from the other district, we didn't spend enough time with them to really know them.

For awhile, one of my friends had a crush on a kid from the other district, Billy Shelton, a tall, delicate boy. Billy liked to joke that he was a woman, walking and talking that way, to great effect. We would walk past his house so my friend could see if he was out on his deck, so that we'd have an excuse to talk to him.

I ran into him once, long after graduation, in the convenience store that had been built on The Triangle. He was glowing and happy; he'd moved to New York City with his "partner" and showed me his commitment ring.

Many years later, when he died young of undisclosed causes, I was the reporter who took his obituary.

That's the thing about snow. That white stuff blanketing everything the way it does, it's like a blank canvas, on which memories fly. It makes you think of things you hadn't thought of in years.

Soon we'll all be digging ourselves out. And that sense of wonder, which will linger for awhile, will melt away with our ordinary days.

Moral:
You don't have to be a child to take a snow day.

Copyright 2003 by Alyce Wilson

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