“No snow,” said radio. “No snow,” said television.
But snowflakes don’t listen to radio. Snowflakes don’t watch television.
All snowflakes know is snow, snow, snow, snow.
from Snow
Every Christmas, my family read London Snow by Paul Theroux (now sadly out of print). In the book, London is blanketed by a snowstorm — unexpectedly, the city is silent, shut down, and beautiful. People are brought together in unexpected ways, as is the magic of snow.
What is it about snow days? It’s a free day, a day out of the ordinary. Instead of the endless to do lists, stretching out days and weeks before me, a snow day is filled with simple, necessary tasks — wrangling kids in and out of snowgear, wiping up puddles of melted snow left by discarded boots, making hot chocolate. The world stops and we play, our lives slow down enough for us to notice other people, strangers on the street, whose lives have slowed down along with ours.
Three years ago, during a large, unusual for us snowstorm, we went to a local park. The hills were covered with people, playing hooky from work, enjoying a day off from school. There was plenty of snow for sledding in a place where we rarely have more than a dusting. Many people didn’t have sleds or winter gear, but they made do. Kids and adults sailed down the hills on plastic storage bin lids, plastic bags rubberbanded over their shoes. Everyone smiled at each other, greeted each other, shared in this extraordinary day. And I thought of London Snow, and of the way things used to be.
I remember, as a kid, seeing the first fat flakes of snow falling outside the classroom window, my heart skipping a beat at the hope of an early release. In those days, there was no weather channel, no internet, no twenty varying weather reports from which to choose. By high school, that had changed. My snow days were not filled with day-long sledding and igloo-building. I didn’t take my dog out to track animals who might be in need of my rescue (I never found any, but that didn’t stop me from trying). No, almost as soon as the first snow day was announced, I started obsessively waiting for an announcement about the next, like an addicted gambler, reinvesting her entire jackpot into the next number roll. I was never entirely satisfied, since eventually the snow did melt, the snow days came to an end. And in the meantime, I missed out on the actual snow.
Because with the advent of constant tv and internet coverage of the weather, we have gained many opinions, but we have lost the unexpected. We rarely are surprised by snow, at least one of the many meteorologists will have predicted it. We often get less than is anticipated, tending to lose the snow days I’d already planned and hoped for after seeing the extended ten day forecast. I need larger and more unusual storms to get my fix, to feel bonded to others in the same storm. And so, I wonder, am I strong enough to stop looking? To stop following storms on Facebook? Do I really need to know more about the weather than what temperature it is if I go out on my porch? Could I just stop looking and let myself be surprised and happy when I see the first fat flakes falling outside my window?
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