Snow Days

Life at its best

Note: Since some new subscribers have come on board since this was published, and since we have just had a lovely load of snow, and since Sundays are good days for reading, I thought I would publish this piece again.

Here's the thing about snow days. They’re fun. Until they’re not. At first staying home feels like an adventure and an indulgence. The snow is so pretty! It’s so quiet! Naps after breakfast AND lunch?! Reading all day?! Yes! Puzzles? Hot chocolate? You bet. Movies? Sure thing. Another four inches by tomorrow morning? Bring it on. If anyone loses power, come on over. Got a generator here. Keeps things civilized: heat, hot water, lights, ice cubes.

But then . . . . the excitement curdles into cabin fever and the novelty expires. Where is the sun? When’s it supposed to stop snowing? Is that freezing rain sizzling on the deck? I can’t read anymore. This puzzle is too hard. I am not sleepy. I can’t find a good movie. I have vacuumed the living room. I have cleaned the stove. And the microwave. I have finished the laundry backlog and reorganized the spice drawer and light bulbs. I want to get out. How did we manage the months of isolation of the pandemic?

Less than twenty-four hours and I am climbing the walls. But I don’t really need anything or need to go anywhere and things are cancelled or closed anyway. I get a good laugh when I go out to shovel the front steps and discover a half inch of ice covering the snow. But I persevere, cracking and heaving and pushing chunks to the left, then the right, bits of blue plastic from my shovel flaking off into the lumpy bright whiteness. . . . It was more strenuous and took longer than I expected. But that’s okay. Nothing else to do! Across the street I see my neighbor digging out his car, windshield wipers flipped outward like a pair of pinky fingers from a teacup. Six months into winter he has finally conceded the season and swapped his shorts and flip-flops for pants and boots.

When I am finished shoveling I come back inside, stomp off the snow and shed my jacket, hat, and gloves. I drop into one of the chairs by the fireplace. A few days ago I was inspired to make a fire but I was not prepared to do so effectively: no fire irons, no bellows, no kindling. And even though the flue was drawing properly smoke chuffed into the room, saturating the air, clothes, upholstery. I’ve been burning a candle since then to counteract the fug.

With evening arriving soon I am rounding the corner of another day, wondering what other home-bound, routine, ordinary activity will become the next highlight to punctuate the blanketing monotony. Dinner? It’s almost time! I will make it last. I will light a candle. I will set a place. I will cook enough to share with a neighbor. Or two. I can trek out tomorrow to deliver and visit. I can do whatever the heck I want. Because this is the thing about snow days. They’re adventure. They’re indulgence. They’re routine. They are what you make them. They’re life.

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