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Pondering snow
You know, I think as you grow older, you see snow differently. If second grade me opened the door (likely already clad in snow-playing gear put on as quickly as possible), I would see - everywhere - a foot-deep layer of sparkling snow. Mom (she was mom then, I started calling her mum in 6th grade, which I think is a better nickname) would be shoveling the last few feet of the driveway while I ran around, making snow forts and sledding. While watching the TV for closings and delays, even if I couldn't read them as fast as they displayed them, I would chant, "snow day! Snow day! Snow day!" I wouldn't worry about April, when I'd need to make up a day for the miss; I would just want a day to play in the snow. And if we didn't get a snow day, I would be out there running around between the time I got home and when Dad got home from work, five twenty-three. Fifth grade me opened the door to a vast landscape of adventures; by then, I read as avidly as I could and had devoured many a book I wished to reenact. And this time around, following obediently behind me came my first-grader brother, who still didn't know how to throw a snowball or build a strong fort. We would use the handy packing snow under the wispy trees by the porch (I always liked how they hung down to the ground, and how I felt like I was in an igloo under them) to make dozens of snowballs. Then we would split them up and pile them in our sleds (I took the best ones, of course), take them to the piles from when Mom shoveled the driveway, and build forts. We would sled down the hill on our brand new purple sleds (which regrettably broke in the following years), and chant for snow days in front of the TV in the mornings. Seventh grade me became a little more logical than its younger counterparts. I saw about nine snow days that year, and grumbled about having to make them up on bright and sunny days in April and May. How bad could the roads be? But our second and third marking periods were dotted with delays and closings, and one day where they actually delayed and early dismissed - you could hear the cheering from every classroom in the school - and the snow kept coming. I mostly stayed inside, engrossed in my Hogwarts website, which was at the peak of its existence at that time - it seemed like it could only get worse from there on out. I was sad when March saw it melting away the final time. Eighth grade me regained a small bit of my childhood excitement among the grumblings about having to make days up - the snow was three feet deep in some places that year. Fourth grade Quinn begged and begged me to go outside, and usually I amused him by doing so, ending up being pelted with snowballs to the face and his annoying habit of jumping out in front of me when I sledded. Snow finally was gone by April. And now nineth grade me opens the door, sees sticky grey-white coating everything - the north side of trees, mailboxes, the garage, the pool deck. I watch for delays and closings on the news, not sure if I feel like going to school in this (think of how slow the bus will be, they haven't plowed the road for an hour!), but not wanting to have to make up the day (or worse, miss it for the orchestra trip and have to do all the make-up work). Fifth grade Quinn, bright-eyed, chants, "snow day! Snow day! Snow day!" And goes sledding with the neighbors down the street - playmates that didn't exist when I was that young - sledding, and fort-building, and snowball-making under the wispy trees beside the porch. He says he likes those trees, feels like he's in an igloo and the snow is always packable. Then he piles his snowballs in his sled and pulls them over to the snow pile across from his friend's, as Mum finishes shoveling the bottom of the driveway, through the layers of hard snow from plows. Nineth grade me opens the door, shivers, and snaps it shut. -Adrienne
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