The snowy day

The older I get, the less I like ‘em

I used to love snow. A forecast of snow brought the happy anticipation of sledding in cold, wet mittens and boots and losing feeling in your fingers and toes. Snow was school missed and marshmallows found for hot chocolate. Pure joy. No concerns over keeping plans and appointments. No muscles achy from shoveling and navigating the packed snow with a dog searching for a good spot to relieve himself.

Growing up sometimes sucks.

My mom’s friend Lorraine (god bless her, now a vibrant ninety-plus years old) still remembers my white snow suit with the furry hood, circa 1955. I don’t have any snow memories of before I was in elementary school except for wearing red, rubber boots. But Lorraine always shares hers of me in the snowsuit I wore more than seventy years ago.

Sisters enjoying a snow day, me in my (maybe too small) white jacket.

As a kid, snow was never an inconvenience. When we lived on Fox Chase Road in northeast Philadelphia, my dad walked a half-block to his pharmacy, the same half block I walked to Farrell School just across from the store’s parking lot. And mine was a stay-at-home mom, so there was no panic related to who would watch the kids if school was canceled.

We went out to play in full snow suits—a warm zip-up jacket with a hood and matching bibbed snow pants. There was no string running through the sleeves connecting our gloves to ensure we didn’t lose them, although I think some kids’ moms clipped their mittens to their jackets. Hats were tied on, both boys’ (the Elmer Fudd, hunter, look) and girls’ (pom-pommed). When we walked to school on cold, snowy mornings, boys wore corduroy trousers. Girls had to wear skirts or dresses, but we pulled on warm pants to be removed at school with our outerwear and hung in our cubbies. Only babies wore actual, voobah-voobah snow pants to school, right?

The gentle slopes in the breezeways between our twin houses provided just enough momentum for novice sledders. Most times we rode solo—me on my wooden Snappy Boy sled (that now lives in our garage). Sometimes we sat two to a sled. Sometimes we rode on our tummies or in a train with our feet acting as couplers. If you picked up enough steam, you could come down the small hill, cross the common driveway that ran between the streets, and head down the incline toward the garage of the house on the other side.

School cancellations due to snow were announced by district name. No news was more excitedly received than hearing, “All Philadelphia public and parochial schools will be closed.” There was no virtual instruction or assignments to complete. When you were off, you were OFF.

The first time snow became problematic for me was December 11, 1962 (I am certain of the day but not the year). A reunion of Summerdale Day Camp alumni had been planned for that Sunday at Oxford Circle Jewish Community Center, a fifteen-minute car ride in good weather from our house. Gene London, a local TV personality whose uncle owned the camp, was scheduled to make an appearance. By the time we needed to leave, it was snowing rather heavily, making driving somewhat dicey. I am sure my mom was not happy about going. But I was not to be dissuaded. We made it s-l-o-w-l-y there and back. There wasn’t much of a turnout, and I can’t recall if Gene showed up. The whole outing was an exercise in guilt.

Not long after, we moved. Now my dad had to drive to work. Snow became his nemesis until the day he retired. He would leave hours early to make sure he opened the store on time. He was a less than enthusiastic driver on a good day—snow made him that much more fearful. I felt for him. But I did not share his anxiety. I’m not sure how I acquired my confidence—Bruce’s teaching me defensive driving and sharing tips on maneuvering on slick roads? I try not to let a storm stop me.

Looking back at our area’s snow storm history, it appears the most noteworthy snowfalls occurred in my lifetime. 1983. 1996. 2009. 2010. 2016. But I have older, snow-associated memories of less significant storms. Like in sixth grade, 1962, when it snowed the last day before winter break, and I wasn’t sure if I would be able to get to Barbara Dash’s birthday party. Or later that same school year when I had to delay wearing my newly purchased, first-ever pair of dungarees because it was too cold and snowy—even though it was March—for anything but flannel pants.

Or how in 1965 when we planned my December 3 bat mitzvah we kept our fingers crossed the weather would cooperate. (It did.)

Or slightly more than a year later when my first date with Bruce was moved from Friday, February 17, to Saturday, February 18 because it snowed. I reluctantly wore black glumpy boots with my blue-and-white houndstooth jumper. At least my green lambs wool coat was stylish. The streets and sidewalks were cleared enough for us to walk from the Orleans Theater where we saw Murderer’s Row to Fisher’s restaurant where we enjoyed an after-movie snack. Bruce’s brother had driven us to the movie. We came back by taxi. I had my first post-date kiss on the doorstep. Take THAT, snow storm!

[Sidebar: Bruce went to Cousins Faith and David’s wedding two months before during the Christmas Day blizzard. Guess he wasn’t gonna let a minor snow squall deny us our date. Oh, and when did they start naming winter storms? I think this last one was Fern?]

Snow safety awareness increased the older and perhaps more vulnerable to injury I got. When I was pregnant and teaching second grade, Principal Knopf sent me home—and the four other teachers who also were expecting—whenever he saw the first flake of snow.

When Missy was about nine months old, we visited my parents after a snowstorm. We parked on Pine Road, a more traveled thoroughfare than our barely plowed Beth Drive. Missy was strapped and blanketed on my old Snappy Boy sled, complete with a seat attachment to keep her secure. I remember thinking it was a lovely family adventure.

There was the big snow event of 1978. Many in my friend group with children who are Ali’s peers have vivid recollections of the storm because they were due to or had recently given birth. Bruce and I shared a driveway and snow clearing duties with neighbors Pauline and Gene, who innocently asked why I wasn’t shoveling. That was how they found out I was pregnant with daughter number two. There was a mini baby boom happening in our circle, but the national birth rate exploded nine months after the storm.

When our kids were in grade school, certain snow-related rituals became legend. Bruce closed the store early to get home before the streets got really bad, and he’d always stop at Allegro’s in Manoa and bring home a pizza. If snow started to fall after the kids had reported for school, they realized (oh! The joy!) they would be dismissed early when no cooking smells were wafting from the cafeteria. And when the school bus got stuck on the hills leading into our neighborhood and the bus drivers let everyone off, it became the big kids’ responsibility to walk the younger ones to their houses, a task they seemed proud and happy to accomplish. Our three each had a chance to perform this act of kindness. And once they were safely home, they all would cross their fingers, hoping KYW news radio would announce 454—our school district—was closed the next day.

And there was the winter of 1993 when Missy was a senior in high school. An ice storm froze her precious Baby Car to the street, rendering it un-driveable for weeks until everything thawed.

When Ali was a senior, we experienced the Blizzard of ‘96 that blanketed our area in an all-time record three-plus feet of snow. Our school district’s teachers had planned to go on strike that year, but the weather gods had other plans for disrupting instruction.

That three-day storm also inspired our infamous Blizzard Barbecue. After days of snow and ice kept everyone indoors and in solitary confinement, we were hungry for company and amusement. Once Bruce was sure he could dig out our car and get to the market (and that it was open) for supplies, we phoned all of our immediate neighbors and invited them for burgers and hot dogs and whatever potluck items they wanted to contribute. You know how you often get a pregnant pause when you ask if someone would like to come over—that interval where they consider alternative options and/or whether they feel like socializing? Not this time! Without hesitation, everyone said YES, bringing everything from wine to Girl Scout cookies. Bruce erected the outdoor table umbrella over the grill to protect the food from the still-falling snow. Our guests came around six. The adults stayed until 11. The younger set hung out until two in the morning. Definitely one of our most successful and appreciated gatherings.

The following fall, Ali went off to college in notoriously snowy Boston. Turns out the year she was there, it didn’t snow until March. And it melted quickly.

We have been mostly fortunate in dodging the weather and getting to Aruba. The trip had to be rescheduled only one time in our entire Aruba history. Thankfully, we were able to secure the same accommodations and flights a week after the original bookings. This year, the January storm that hit thirty-five states made the going a bit different, but go we did.

We have no avid skiers or snowboarders among us. Just grandkids who enjoy the simple pleasures of childhood snow days. Sledding. Snowman building. Fort sculpting. Making a small fortune shoveling sidewalks and driveways for seventeen (you read that right) hours.

Interestingly, none of our dogs has been a big fan of snow. There may be some initial romping and nose burying and playing catch with snowballs. But ultimately it comes down to, What happened to my grass? What happened to my Pmail? Where am I supposed to GO?

I’m with you, Cody. The snow pack can’t melt fast enough.

Nothing like burgers in a blizzard.