It’s been many decades since Comus watched the weather for a school snow day. When one lives in the South, even a flake of snow can cause disruption. Many were the days, sixty years ago, when Comus avidly watched the weather for the hoped-for day off from school. In my hometown, the local weather stations proffered a “snowbird” that proclaimed in a high tone, the most glorious two-word phrase that every schoolchild hoped to hear: “No School! No School!” Those were delightful days, with nothing bewildering about them.
Once those words were repeated, a horde of schoolchildren in my neighborhood—and I do mean horde—as many as fifteen or more—launched out into the typically below-freezing weather to enjoy a day of sledding, snowball fights, fort-building, even snow statues, and of course, frostbite. Back then, the best one could do was wear blue jeans and try not to get them wet, a feat remembered only for its failure, never its success. Stay-at-home Moms—and there were dozens of them in our neighborhood back then—gladly pushed us all out the door, with the command that we not return until the sun set.
Not to turn too nostalgic about it all, but it was a grand time. We might stop by a friend’s house for hot chocolate or simply to get a snack. But the day was spent in frolicking fun.
Memories are, as Wordsworth finely had it, warehoused as shouts, but Comus recalls those days as nothing short of fabulous. I wished so much for snow and freezing weather that my father threatened to ship me off to the North Pole. I’m sure that it had something to do with rarely having to shovel snow. Our driveway was gravel, so any snow shoveling was relegated to our short sidewalk, a task of less than a quarter hour. Some of us might try to finagle a few neighbors to pay us to shovel their driveways, but we were far more interested in snowmen, forts and the like, as mentioned above.
These events were not without episodic accidents. One large snowfall (more than eight inches) sent us to build two forts about twenty yards apart and begin besieging each other with snowballs. All went well until a best friend launched one snowball with more ice than snow at a bespeckled enemy whom we did not particularly like. As the launch made its descent, our bête noire looked up just in time to catch the spherical projectile right in the face. Thankfully, the injury proved minor.
Mostly, though, the memories are as pleasant as the snow itself. One especially harsh winter caused schools to announce on a Friday that school was out through the following Tuesday. While I am certain our mothers, God bless them, nearly fainted, we children were ecstatic. A five-day snow vacation was unheard of in the South. Most vividly was the brontosaurus my brother built. At over nine feet high, it brought our reporters and most of the rest of the neighborhood to inspect. It took over two weeks to melt, even as the temperatures rose to above fifty.
I reminisce in this manner because I grieve over young people today. Sure, elementary schoolchildren may not have to have e-learning days (does the e stand for egregious?), but everyone else is doomed to them. Apparently, someone—no doubt an educrat—thought this would be a clever idea since young people already gravitate to the Internet. But the educrat did not take into account that the web can be entertaining. For most young people, learning, either in situ or online, is not.
What is wrong with letting schoolchildren, whatever their age, get a day off when it snows? Snowfalls are rare in the South—weather reporters miss the predictions more often than not—so the one or two that happen in a given year will not stultify our K-12 audience any more severely than a day of e-learning is certain to do.
Let’s not make these rare snow days more like snow daze. Give them a chance to make some memories that will last a lifetime.
