I felt like a kid. I’m going to go as far as saying I felt giddy. An emotion I can’t say I’m too familiar with. Giddiness is like lost luggage, never to be seen again. Only it did! Imagine a suitcase worn down by years of being passed from one airport after another, being thrown out to sea and buried under mounds of dirt only to show up one day on your doorstep. That’s what it was like to feel giddy again.
Goosebumps covered my flesh up and down my arms. Although, this is most likely due to the temperature outside and the fact that I keep our house at a frigid sixty-five degrees. Nonetheless, I was excited.
After all, it was a snow day.
Educators love them just as much as the students do. Probably more. For us, at least me, it rejuvenates memories I cherish. In the days before the internet and iphones, we glued our eyes to the TV as the cancellations scrolled across the bottom while the news anchors spoke of nothing important. There was nothing like knowing school was closed the night before. Every ounce of joy you could extract from life was squeezed out and consumed with pure delight. Life was perfect.
Sometimes, we didn’t need the news to tell us. I spent a lot of time in our basement playing Earl Weaver Baseball, shooting pool or watching movies, all while the woodstove remained full like a a belt-busting belly after a Thanksgiving meal. We had a patio door with a light outside hanging on the brick foundation of the house. I loved flicking the switch and watching the light push the utter darkness away as I watched millions of snowflakes covering the forest and accumulating in our yard. The more snow, the more chance we’d stay home the next day. It didn’t take much, but I loved checking every so often. An inch an hour was a majestic symphony to my adolescent eyes and ears.
When snowfall wasn’t expected until after bedtime, I didn’t have the luxury of knowing about cancellations. I went to bed and crossed my fingers and toes for extra measure. Sometimes, my dad would come and tell me before he’d head off to work in his big, red van. Other times, all I needed to do was sit up in bed and look at my skylight or the window looking out over the garage roof. If they were covered, I closed my eyes and dreamt of the trails my brothers and I would make so we could sled for hours and hours. When we were sledding, time didn’t exist. School didn’t exist.
Problems didn’t exist. Unless you couldn’t find boots that fit.
For as long as the snow clung to the branches - which was longer than those on the other side of the hill - and there were still islands of snow in the yard, we took every opportunity possible to sled, have snowball fights - using garbage can lids as shields - and even ride our bikes through the drifts and plowed snow. It was a kingdom built for children and only children. A kingdom that only appeared during the winter months and when everything in the atmosphere was perfect. A kingdom I could have never realized how much I would miss.
Until…
…years later, when my phone's alerts, notifications and texts told me we had a snow day.
My kingdom came back.
To be continued…