VIRGINIA BEACH — As a child in Pennsylvania, January was a letdown until I thought about what winter meant – the sweet anticipation of a snow day.
We used to watch from the windows as the first fat flurries fell. My dad made sure the sleds were ready and the ice skates lace-sound. My mother rummaged all the plastic bags she could find to line our boots.
If all went according to plan, the promised measurement arrived by daybreak, and the news was served up like a thick-frosted cake.
A few weeks ago, I said to my husband, “I bet that even those without a snow day know what is meant by the words, ‘It’s a snow day.’”
He agreed, and he would know. His first job after high school involved maintaining our roadways for the city of Virginia Beach. During a snowstorm, this meant middle of the night and all-day salt application in anticipation of the hazards.
There are indeed many people who have never experienced what is meant by those words – enough snowfall to close schools, restaurants and even roads. But we can all appreciate an unexpected day off from the ordinary.
During my first winter in Virginia Beach, my oldest stepson came home from school and proclaimed, “School’s going to be closed tomorrow, Karen. It’s going to snow.”
Now, having lived most of my life up north, I conjured images of a 10-to-15-inch snowfall, the kind that puts Northerners on high alert. I turned on the news and heard my first “significant snowfall” predictions in the south. The weatherman gravely warned there would be a dusting of an inch on the southside, higher accumulations of an inch or two to the north and west.
“That’s not a significant snowstorm,” I hollered up the stairs, where my boys were already pulling out their meager collection of winter-weather clothing.
Alas, it was. The next day, the hoped-for hush fell upon us, and we dashed to the ice-encrusted windows for confirmation. It was a snow day.
From dawn to dusk, I scrambled, forcing plastic bags over socks to be secured with rubber bands before boots were pulled on and doors slapped shut behind children rushing to disturb the silence outside.
Every few hours, the kids charged back in, eyes bright, cheeks snow-burnt and mittens soaked, for hot chocolate and cookies. The dryer ran in shifts as drawers were emptied in search of more clothes to layer, snow soak and then discard in a garage pile of melt.
I was reminded of those days during our first snow this year, which, thankfully, fell on a Saturday and was close to this Northerner’s definition of significant. I say “thankfully” because things have changed for those of us who longingly recall what a snow day meant a decade or more ago.
It was a chance to press pause.
Like so many other aspects of our lives, snow days began to change with the introduction of technology to our workplaces, education centers and homes. Initially, in my home, this transformation primarily affected me.
Gone were the snow days that focused on the kids as they stampeded through the house, thrilled to be off, mindless of the sopping wet mess I had to maintain while I tried to keep up with them. Suddenly, I was distracted by a computer open on the table to teach my classes while also fielding requests for hot chocolate and cookies, more plastic bags, boots, pants, mittens, hats and time.
Although my classes were typically held in a brick-and-mortar classroom, they now had an online component, and on snow days, I could – and was required to – hold them online. We were not “off” on account of snow. We were in class. I quickly came to dread a snow day like a tax audit. Soon, the kids did as well.
I’m not arguing administrative, school board or government dictates about what we do with our time on snow days.
However, there’s something to be said about the value of a true snow day. Any accumulation is a necessary, natural environmental nourish and cleanse. It’s not so different for us. For a moment, on snow days, there is silence, and routine is suspended. In a way, we are renewed.
Early that snowy Saturday in January, my husband, son and I stood at the front window of our home and looked out at the white-washed world.
We watched as a group of children, toboggans slung over their shoulders, approached from the east. Across the pond that fronts our house, another group of children tracked a path to meet them, like a flock of birds cascading across the sky to converge at the point where the path trails off into the woods. Their muffled calls to each other were like migratory maneuverings to that hoped-for hill large enough for sledding speed.
Where that is in Virginia Beach, I don’t know, but I found myself filled to the brim with longing.
The author is a writer, former Virginia Beach planning commissioner and professor who lives in Ashville Park. Contact her via email at leejogger@gmail.com.
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