Snow days. A non-existent day where I've lived most of my adult life. A fairy-tale hope in the time of my youth.
In Northern Virginia, where I lived from the time I was 3 -- save for a four-year hitch in Hawaii -- until I went off to college, the school district would build extra days into the calendar at the end of the year to offset any school closings because of snow. No matter that I liked elementary school, I wished for huge snow storms, celebrating with the other kids when we'd hear "Fairfax County schools: closed" on the radio. I don't doubt for a minute that my mother wished for the exact opposite. Most times, she got her wish. Ah, but there were days the kids got theirs.
Dragging sleds and lag-behind siblings up our cul-de-sac, through the Henrys' yard, trudging up to the Bren Mar School yard, we'd head off to...school? Well, yeah, school is most fun when it's closed. Besides, the best hills were there. Sledding, snowball fights, building (mostly paltry) snowmen, trying out the mini-skis my parents -- or was it Santa? -- got me for Christmas.
We'd come home, drenched with sweat and melting snow and exhilaration. My mom, who hid her certain disappointment at a houseful of children on a school day quite well, would make most excellent hot chocolate. And grilled cheese sandwiches. And tomato soup.
And all was right with the world as a kid on a snow day.
[Sunday Scribblings participants tackle winter's tales this week. Do warm up some hot chocolate and read along.]