Grown-ups think snow sucks.
They're faced with a laundry list of chores the minute the flakes start falling. Slaying the driveway with a shovel, going to battle on the windshield - it all sucks. They drive to work on wicked slippery roads and then they have to duck from those massive, sloppy snowflakes as they walk in to the office.
Yes, snowfall pretty much sucks when you're big.
But us kids - we LOVE the snow.
We wake up during the week and before we even head downstairs for breakfast we peep through the blinds to see if the yard's covered in a white fluffy blanket fresh from heaven. If it is, we immediately run to the nearest television to see if the powers that be decided to close school for the day. That's the great thing about being a kid - the snow gives us a day off from the cool groups and the peer pressure of wearing the right outfits and those dreaded Salisbury steaks in the school cafeteria.
Snow days are a pass on all the politics and garbage and mean people in favor of sledding, drinking cocoa and making cookies with Mom.
I loved zipping up those snow pants and hitting the big hill in our back yard when I was a girl. Bridge and I would lace up the moon boots and trudge through the snow, dragging our sleds behind us. I always used the red toboggan, Bridge loved the yellow disc. We'd slide down the massive hill, across our backyard and glide into the neighbors' yard - stopping right before the edge of a steep cliff. The snow clung to our woolen mittens and chilly flecks of it would find their way down the neck of our coats but we wouldn't mind - we were having a wild time in a cavernous forest encrusted in a swath of snow.
While we were frolicking the day away in the backyard, snow plows and salt trucks would patrol the neighborhood doing their damndest to make the streets clear for tomorrow's business - school buses and carpools and other traffic.
One time Bridge and I saw one of these salt trucks pull up the long driveway across from our home. The driveway was near the entrance to our subdivision and it led to an old farm house and a church that was converted into a school. The people who lived in the farmhouse kept to themselves, but we were familiar with the school - it was a montessori school our youngest sister, Mickdizzle, attended.
We climbed up the steep and snowy drive and found the yellow salt truck idling - the driver appeared to be on his lunch break. He was knawing on a sandwich and shuffling through the day's newspaper, ignoring the world of winter beyond his windshield.
We were as stealth as little girls could be - especially wearing bright fushia and turquoise snowsuits. We made it to the back of the truck and found the funnel that dispensed the salt inside and we started shoving heaps of snow up the shoot. Our little hands grabbed as much snow as they could and we worked fast - we truly believed if we disabled this truck the district would have to close school another day.
We did the best we could, and we ran away when we heard the truck driver yelling at us to get away from his precious, salty booty.
The next morning the snow came, and it brought with it more salt trucks.
The roads were clear and we had to bundle up for our trip to the bus stop down the street. We faced another day in the cut thoat halls of school - those clique-filled classrooms and the cafeteria where insults were a spectator sport.
But someow we survived.
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