Things change. Perspectives change. The way you see your life now won't be the same as they way you see it ten, twenty, fifty years later. When we're lucky, we can see glimpses of these changes in real time. When we're unlucky, we see these glimpses in real time because of something awful like the COVID lockdowns. Today, we have a story from Ann told in 2019 and retold one year later:
Ann Von Dehsen
01.39.2019
Snow Day
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 insure 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 realty 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 guilt 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 chill and gave the ll 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 more conviction!
And here's the same story, retold in 2020:
Ann von Dehsen
12.17.2020
Snow Day (2020 Revision)
As I sit here watching the snow fall gently out side of the 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 with the mantra, “Please let it snow, please let snow, please let it snow.”
At day break we would ceremoniously lift the shade an inch or two, hoping to see snow instead of asphalt. 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 clock around 7:57, 7:58, 7:59—hold your breath—8 o'clock. If heaven forbid that siren did not blare we still had faith. “Oh, our clock is probably faster,” “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 in the snow in full snow gear, pulling our sleds behind us, ready for all types of fun. Our neighborhood was made up of quiet side streets with minimal traffic. There was one hill that ended on a busier street, so we took turns being watchers. 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 all oncoming cars. Once in awhile we would get a rather terrifying, “Hurry Up!” from the watchers as we were halfway down the hill. Luckily the snow gods kept us safe and sleds never quite 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 making snow angels, building snowmen, and having intermittent snowball fights. When my toes started to frees and my fingertips began turning numb, I folded and went into my toasty house eventually followed by sister. 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. While we changed into dry clothes, our mom made us mugs of dry chocolate which my sister and I constantly refreshed with numerous squirts of Reddi-Wip whipped cream.
Later after my snow-weary father made it safely home from an icy commute we asked our parents about the chances for another consecutive snow day. Though they highly doubted it we did another snow dance and chant to cover our bases.
It wasn't until many years later when I became a teacher that I realized that all teachers also engaged in that ritual, often with much more conviction. Unfortunately for both children and teachers this year virtual learning does not allow for snow days.
If you want to transcribe for Best Day, then email us at info@bestdayofmylifesofar.org. You can also share our older buds' adventures by donating to Best Day, subscribing to our newsletter, sending a note to our older buds, or following us on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter. And if you or the older buds have any stories about how the way you see life has changed, then you or they can submit stories through our portal right here. We're especially interested to stories from Black older buds, but we're always looking for stories from older buds of color, older buds with disabilities, LGBTQIA+ older buds, older buds of any gender or sex, older buds of any religion, and older buds who just plain break the mold.
And don't forget to maintain contact with the older buds in your life. If you can't be there in person, please call them, email them, or message them on social media. And if they're using teleconferencing or remote events for the first time, give them a call and help them set things up. Check in on them to see how well they're getting used to these programs. Buy them a computer or an internet package if they don't have one of their own. It's a human right, after all.
