12:05 A.M. I lie in the dark, tossing and turning, my ears tuned to the slightest sound.
1:46 A.M. Probabilities of snowfall float through my head.
2:31 A.M. "Tomorrow will be 25," the words of one of my fellow teachers, echoes in my mind. She's successfully called 24 snow days in a row; could her luck hold out?
4:07 A.M. I ponder if it's possible to hear a snowflake collide with an asphalt shingle.

4:33 A.M. I picture the Superintendent of Schools out driving the roads, but I'm sure he hasn't made the call yet.
4:52 A.M. I hear some muffled noise. Might it be the frozen hulk of the metal snowplow about to scrape clean our road?
5:19 A.M. Close enough. Breathless, unable to wait a moment longer, I carefully peel back the covers and scurry down the hall to our only television.

Nothing in the world compares to a snow day. Most of us part with this sublime pleasure after high school, but a lucky few, teachers in particular, eventually can reconnect with this long-lost joy. Lesson plans, staff meetings, and lunch duty all helplessly dissipate in the wake of inches upon inches of snow or the slightest coating of ice. The sick-to-your-stomach excitement never changes, no matter how old you are. Neither does the ensuing minutes of wildly running and hooting around the house, waking up those around you.

After the initial surge of excitement, a moment of icy reality always sets in. There are cars to be unearthed, driveways to be cleared. But none of that really matters: I HAVE A WHOLE DAY OFF! My wife, excited but still heavy with sleep, turns over and falls into a satisfied slumber, but not me. My mind is racing with far too many visions of sledding, hot chocolate, and snow raging on for weeks without end. I return to the television and watch the school closings cycle endlessly through the newscast, inwardly rejoicing that I wasn't offered a job in one of the school districts that only have a two-hour delay.

The day races by like the Canadian wind that brought the storm in the first place. After digging out the cars, my wife and I feast on piles of pancakes then bundle up for a short expedition to the elementary school down the road. We frolic on the deserted school playground, eerie without the clamor of little ones. Snowballs fly, sleds race, and cheeks turn a deep shade of crimson. After returning home, we warm ourselves by the wood stove and take a luxurious early-afternoon nap. It's soon 4:15 P.M., the time I would usually be getting home from work, and that gnawing bitter cold is eating at my insides again. Perhaps another cup of hot chocolate (number 4 for the day) would help me feel better.

Now it's 5:00 P.M., and I nervously plod into the den. The weatherman's words seem to hang frozen in the air: "Tomorrow looks to be cold but clear." Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I... No, the idea of ever returning to work again is too horrible to bear. I am an adult, and I can choose to never leave the house again...can't I?

After oscillating between denial and anger, acceptance eventually washes over me. I should be grateful for the wonderful day I had and not be greedy. After all, how many jobs are there in the world where you find out just minutes before starting your commute that you don't have to go in at all? Yes, we teachers are the chosen few that fortune smiles down upon. As I climb into bed, my legs sore from retraced steps through knee-deep drifts, I feel pretty darn lucky.

It takes me a little longer than usual to fall asleep from all the day's excitement, but I eventually do. Of course, in the back of my mind, a part of me is wide awake, staring into the darkness, waiting for the slightest sound to feed snow-clad dreams.

Learn more about this author, Ryan Swank.
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