Well, the kids got what they wanted, another snow day, and I can hear Will gently snoring right now as I write this. He was positively gleeful at the thought of catching up on sleep and homework and went to bed with visions of early morning E-mails calling off school yet again.
When the kids were little, snow days meant running outside to make snow forts, hurl snowballs at each other, and trudge through the neighborhood to the retention basin at the end of the cul-de-sac to fly down the hill on their saucers. It meant packing up the SUV and driving over to the sledding mecca of West Windsor, the giant mound at Community Park, to run up and slide down all day long. It still means that to the younger families in this community, but even they, I imagine, at this point, have visions of sunshine and tulips and daffodils poking their heads through the warm earth of spring.
I can remember my very first snow day. We were living in Massachusetts, and my brother and I made the best snow house ever, so intricate and well designed that I long for it even now. We carved out thrones from the giant boulders of snow from which I commanded my icy kingdom with my one serf, my younger brother. We made walls out of blocks and a kitchen, too, so we could make snow food and let it melt on our tongues to quench our thirst as well. I can’t remember feeling the cold; the fire of our imagination kept us warm for hours.
But that night, it kept on snowing and snowing and snowing, and they had to close the roads and cancel the buses. Where was our father, and why wasn’t he home yet? Of course, this was in the days long before the Internet could keep us posted on the latest news, cell phones did not exist, and television was limited pretty much to the three big networks, with no local news at all. As the cold hours stretched on, we worried along with our mother. Would dad have to stay overnight at his school? Was he lost somewhere in the swirling storm? What if he didn’t return? Ever?
All of a sudden, icy fear replaced the joy of the snow day frolic and our day seemed careless and frivolous. Our dad was missing. Finally, hours later, just as we were about to consider the worst possibilities, the front door swung open, and there stood my father, icicles on his breath and covered with snow from top to bottom. It is a sight I would never forget.
He had driven from our home in Arlington to school that morning, to continue his research for his PhD dissertation. Caught up in his work, he had not realized the intensity of the impending blizzard, nor had he heeded any of the warnings. So when he emerged from his lab, he finally understood that he would not be able to drive home, that he would most likely have to stay overnight. But he was not prepared. And my mother was expecting him home and a warm dinner awaited.
So he had set out on foot. At the time I understood that it was far, but it is only in the present day after doing a MapQuest search that I confirmed the distance to be about five miles; a long walk no matter what weather, but especially in a whirling, blinding snowstorm. I don’t know what he was thinking, except that the homing instinct drove him forward, one icy step after another, through the howling wind and the swirling flakes back to the old homestead.
I remember this now, noting how hardy he was. This has always been the spirit of my father, who grew up on a North Korean farm, and pioneered his way to a new life in America through sheer brainpower and determination. I remember this especially now, since he will be 84 this month. He is still hardy and determined, and despite my best efforts to hire people to plow his driveway and clear his walk or go up to northern New Jersey to help, he refuses any help. He pulls out the snow blower and tells me that if he can’t do it alone, he and my mother will push it together.
It’s a touching image, but it worries me. He could slip and fall; he could collapse from the exertion. It’s not enough to have your own children to worry about; as your parents age, you have to worry about all the dangers they face as well. Such is the fate of the sandwich generation.
Another note about snow days: once upon a time, when it was too dangerous to go outside, you got a break from the outside world. You could cocoon in the warmth of your home and get a genuine pass for the day. Not so any more. A snowstorm is such a very localized thing in our globally connected world, and the rest of the universe marches forward. Deadlines loom, columns must be written, and deals must be made. I thought about this as I watched my husband drive gingerly down our icy driveway to head into work; no rest for the weary, even in the great ice storm of 2014.
A snow day is a double-edged sword: more sleep for some, and a chance to catch up; for others, it is danger with no respite from the demands of the every day routine. Whatever it is to you, be cautious and stay warm. It looks like there is more to come.
