Snow Day
It's snowing again in Washington. This is the third time it's snowed here this winter . . . which is kind of a big deal. Usually, we're lucky to get a few inches and maybe an ice storm for good measure. The recent spate of snow storms got me thinking about the snow days of yore.
Everyone remembers that feeling of waking up to a snow covered yard and street (unless, I suppose, if you live in Arizona or Hawaii or Miami), pulling out the radio or running downstairs to watch TV to see what the verdict would be: school or no school. There were no two greater words in the English language than the words, "Snow Day!" It didn't happen often, but when it did, it was nothing but pure bliss!
Our neighborhood growing up was the best place to be during a snowstorm. My friend, the now Lady Doctor, lived across the street, so on snow days my dad would shovel our walk and a path across the unplowed street, meeting up with LD's shoveled walk. Our parents would enjoy cocktails, cheese, and crackers, while LD, Little Sister, and I would rollerskate in the basement (after having played in the snow all day and had hot chocolate, of course). To this day, these are some of my most cherished memories of growing up.
Maybe that's why I still get gleeful at the thought of a snow day. Most workplaces in the D.C. area follow the Federal Government to determine if they will be open or not. And yet, the Feds almost never close. It hasn't mattered much this year, since two of our three storms fell on Saturdays. Waking up and not having to work on a snowy day (even if it was Saturday) is perfect happiness. And living in the heart of the city is almost as good as living on the street where I grew up.
And while my snow day activities no longer entail rollerskating, they almost always include cocktails. Not having to shovel, drive, or generally worry about snow removal is the the great gift of city living. During the blizzard in December, WH and I went to lunch during the height of the storm a couple of blocks from our house. Later that night, we met up with friends at a local watering hole. Cocktails with friends a short walk from our house? Hmm, maybe we do turn into our parents after all.
Everyone remembers that feeling of waking up to a snow covered yard and street (unless, I suppose, if you live in Arizona or Hawaii or Miami), pulling out the radio or running downstairs to watch TV to see what the verdict would be: school or no school. There were no two greater words in the English language than the words, "Snow Day!" It didn't happen often, but when it did, it was nothing but pure bliss!
Our neighborhood growing up was the best place to be during a snowstorm. My friend, the now Lady Doctor, lived across the street, so on snow days my dad would shovel our walk and a path across the unplowed street, meeting up with LD's shoveled walk. Our parents would enjoy cocktails, cheese, and crackers, while LD, Little Sister, and I would rollerskate in the basement (after having played in the snow all day and had hot chocolate, of course). To this day, these are some of my most cherished memories of growing up.
Maybe that's why I still get gleeful at the thought of a snow day. Most workplaces in the D.C. area follow the Federal Government to determine if they will be open or not. And yet, the Feds almost never close. It hasn't mattered much this year, since two of our three storms fell on Saturdays. Waking up and not having to work on a snowy day (even if it was Saturday) is perfect happiness. And living in the heart of the city is almost as good as living on the street where I grew up.
And while my snow day activities no longer entail rollerskating, they almost always include cocktails. Not having to shovel, drive, or generally worry about snow removal is the the great gift of city living. During the blizzard in December, WH and I went to lunch during the height of the storm a couple of blocks from our house. Later that night, we met up with friends at a local watering hole. Cocktails with friends a short walk from our house? Hmm, maybe we do turn into our parents after all.
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