Memory Monday: Snow Day
A picture is worth a thousand words? Sure. But the most important quality about a photo is its ability to transport you to another time, to let you relive the memories that the photo captured. Photographs, in their own way, are time traveling devices.
While pouring over a bag of photos from my childhood I found images from family vacations, picnics, elementary school parties, field trips and holidays, but when my hand touched this snow day photo I was immediately transported to a 1995 winter’s afternoon at my childhood home in Staffordsville, Kentucky. I was a nine-year-old girl again.
Other than Christmas morning, summer vacation and receiving a Valentine’s Day card from your classroom crush, nothing holds the magic and promise of a snow day. It begins like any other day with a groggy trip down the hall to the bathroom, followed by the excruciating task of deciding between Lucky Charms and over easy eggs and toast. Then Mom turns on the radio and your body wells with gut-wrenching anxiety that makes you rethink the eggs. You run to the window to partake of the precipitation. You recognize that the snowfall is substantial, but still you doubt your gut. And you listen. You wait for the familiar voice of the radio DJ to list your school among the area locations with closings (Not delays. There’s no magic or promise in delays.) And then it happens. You hear that your school is closed and the grogginess and anxiety dissipate to make room for the energy required to perform your best and most embarrassing Snow Day Happy Dance.
And then you go back to bed.
When you wake this time your room is noticeably brighter than it was at 6:30 am and you pray that the sun isn’t showing her face and melting away your snowy salvation. Again, you rush to the window and your excited breath fogs the chilly window as you are greeted with the most pristine landscape you have ever beheld. The brown, dead earth of winter has been powdered with flakes of magic. Your mind spins with the possibilities. Your imagination does a happy dance of its own. Will you rope someone into a snowball fight? Will you build a snowman? Will you gather a bowl of snow and help Mom make snow cream? Will you just wander around your yard aimlessly to see how far you sink down into the snow blanket? Answer: All. Of. The. Above. Chapped lips, red face and snotty nose be damned.
I miss those days. My family doesn’t live in my childhood home anymore; the pine tree in the yard has long since been cut down; my mom isn’t around to hang her artificial flower arrangements from the porch (seriously). My world is different. But I have this to look forward to: