by Joe Paradis

Created on: January 05, 2009

Snow Days

"I just saw a few flakes! I think it's starting already," gushed the young boy. Giddy with excitement, he and his sister were staring out the window of their living room, into the darkness of an early winter night.

"What's started?" called their father from his LazyBoy in the next room.

"The snowstorm!" they chimed in unison. Do you think we'll have a snow day tomorrow?"

"I don't think so, guys. The weatherman said we can expect one to two inches. That's not enough for a day off."

But the kids knew better. This was, after all, the year 2005; not 1960 when their Dad was in grade school. They remember his stories. About walking to school for miles, uphill both ways, in a raging snowstorm. Wearing those high black rubber boots with about 20 buckles on them. Carrying his metal lunchbox, with a real thermos bottle inside shaped like a rocketship. Wearing a snowsuit and sweater and mittens and one of those ski masks that only terrorists wear these days.

They recall his memories of measuring the depth of the snow outside the cellar door every five minutes with a yardstick, while his dad, their grandfather, shoveled coal into the asbestos furnace. The rule of thumb during their Dad's childhood was that six inches of snow pretty much guaranteed a day off from school. They were thankful they didn't live back then, in those harsh times. Six inches...jeesh...

The kids focused once again on the four snowflakes that now dotted their living room window. "I think it's gonna be a good one," the little girl mused.

Their mother strolled in, rolling her eyes. She was used to their aspirations of snow days. Unfortunately, they were usually right. She sighed, anticipating having to take another vacation day from work to stay home tomorrow. While her kids sat in front of the TV all day in their pajamas, watching Sponge Bob Square Pants and trying to sneak an occasional peak at some it's all about me' show on MTV. "To bed with you guys," she said. And they reluctantly retreated to their bedrooms.

At 5:30 next morning, Dad rolled over to check the time on his clock radio, only to stare straight into the eyes of his kids. They were perched by his bed, already listening to the news. "I think we'll have the day off," said his son. "We're just waiting to hear them say it on the radio." Dad squinted into the darkness outside his window. He vaguely detected a thin coating of snow on the tree branches. He groaned and rolled over, determined to grab just ten more minutes of shuteye.

But the

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