Reaching to slap down the
alarm this morning, my husband shoots straight up in bed and announces,
"Good God, it's snowing!" He is right I concure after focusing my eyes on
the window. How exciting: a snow day!It doesn't matter what your
age is. There's something about snow that makes the day magical. Your
senses heighten as you reach back to all those wonderful memories. It's
like Christmas morning, or watching fireworks, or sipping hot chocolate as
you warm your red tingling toes under covers. No time to waste. It's out
of bed to let the kids know, flicking on the tv as I walk by to listen for
school closings.
Excited yells preceed their
run to the door to size up the situation. I grab my camera and hurridly
push my feet into my boots as I slip on my cape. I don't know why I'm in a
rush. It's not going anywhere soon. But I feel this urgency that comes from
knowing how special a morning snowfall is.I slide open the door and step
outside. It's perfect. It's pristine, so untouched. There's that strange
snow silence and then the softest sound of heavy flakes falling. Every so
often a clump drops from the trees with a gentle plop. The snow is piled so
high on everything it drips down the sides like frosting. I love it best
when it clings to the trees. It's a pearly white world edged by a grey sky.
The dogs are let loose in a
mighty bound and I snap back into the reality of the day. No school for the
kids. But it's too late to hope they may return to bed and allow us to
steal a little extra "snow-morning" sleep. They are already tearing through
dresser drawers and closets to locate their winter wear. They emerge in
makeshift attire, but then, this is the first snowfall. We'll be better
prepared next time."How about some breakfast
first?""Where are your boots?""Look in that black basket by
your dresser. Your gloves SHOULD be in there."It's all useless. They are
already out the door and pounding one another with snow balls.Contemplating it's beauty only
an hour earlier, I remember the downside of driving in snow as I cautiously
back out the drive-way. There are a few anxious moments when my tires start
to spin on the slush and I'm stuck. I manage to slide passenger side first
onto the street where I get some traction and I'm off.When I arrive at the University
the atmosphere is charged. The combination of the snow and the fact it is
the week before finals produces a cavalier mood. I can feel what's running
through the students' minds. "So what if I have ten term papers to write and
exams to study for; it snowed! It's a holiday." It's a great excuse to play
no matter what your age. People laugh a little easier and let loose. For
some it's something else to complain about other than finals, even though
they are secretly pleased."I hate it when it snows in
Salisbury. You step on it and there's water underneath.""It is SO snowy. I woke up and
my car was buried."We trade snow stories
periodically during the class and when I head back outside to the parking
lot I carefully dodge an energetic snowball fight going on between
red-faced students. I pick up the pace as I remember the boys I left behind
doing the same thing.They are still at it when I
get home. Snow is flying, dogs are barking and kids are screaming at one
another daring shots. From the front door to the bathroom there is a trail
of soggy clothes discarded after rounds outside. Packed nuggets of snow lie
melting in puddles of water. Oh well. It looks like it had been a good
morning.
A snowy day is a lovely excuse
to have a fire in the wood stove, to simmer something delicious smelling on
the stove and to tuck up into a ball on the couch and read.
Not to miss a thing, my
youngest son convinces his dad to take him sledding at the park after
dinner. He actually surfs the icy hills on a cafeteria tray.
Dressed for the artic, my
husband pops his head back inside and calls me out. "Look," he says
reverently. A full moon is rising over the field. It's brightness makes the
mist that is floating over the snow shimmer. Stars sparkle blue in the
black sky. It's a perfect end to the first snowfall of winter.
Other Writings by Kelley Rouse
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