By Ann Von Dehsen, February 18, 2019 — As I sit here watching the snow fall gently outside my window, I think back to the joy of snow days when I was in elementary school.
To ensure a snow day following a prediction, the kids in my neighborhood all did a version of a snow dance before getting into bed. Once in bed, we would chant ourselves to sleep by praying to the snow Gods, “Please let it snow…please let it snow…please let it snow.”
At daylight, we would ceremoniously life the shade an inch or two hoping to see snow instead of driveway. If we did, down to the kitchen we would fly, waiting for the magic hour of 8 am. For in my little northern, New Jersey town, with a small elementary school, the fire siren would loudly blare at 8 am signifying… SNOW DAY!! My sister and I would start watching the cock around 8:58, 7:59, hold your breath: 8:00! If heaven for bid that siren did not blare, we still had faith – “Oh, our clock is probably fast” or, “Maybe the siren is broken,” or the very far fetched, “Maybe we didn’t hear it.” Cruel reality hit as we were sent back to our rooms to get dressed and ready for school. But if that siren went off, you could hear the collective cries of joy from neighboring children. Within the hour, most of us were out on the street in full snow gear, pulling our sleds behind us ready for all types of snow fun.
Our neighborhood was made up of … side streets with minimal traffic. There was one hill that ended on a busier street so we took turns being the watcher. Two watchers stood at the base of the hill and gave the ‘All clear’ sign for us to hop on our sleds when the street was free of oncoming cars. Once in a while, we would get a rather terrifying, “Hurry up!” from the watchers as we were midway down the hill. Luckily, the snow Gods get us safe and sleds never met cars.
After a midday break for lunch, and perhaps a new pair of dry mittens, back outside we went. We spent most of the afternoon building snowmen, making snow angels, and having intermittent snowball fights.
When my toes started to freeze and my finger tips began turning numb, I folded and went into my toasty house. Wet mittens, hats, socks, and scarves were placed on top of the radiator to dry. I can still remember the smell of damp wool on the heat. A strange, but somewhat comforting odor.
My mom would appear with 2 mugs of hot chocolate and we sat on the couch watching shows like Beat the Clock, and the always tear jerking Queen for a Day.
Later at dinner, conversation would turn to the possibility of tomorrow being another snow day. While my parents warned that that was highly unlikely, my sister and I repeated the entire snow ritual just to cover our bases. It wasn’t until may years later when I became a teacher did I realize that all teachers also engage in that ritual – often [with] more conviction!