I live in Southern Ontario, and last night brought an unseasonable dumping of powder in the wee hours of the morning, the perfect time, in fact, for snow to fall.
“Why is that?” you ask.
Well, as a teacher, I am at the mercy of timing. If the snow comes to early in the night, the snow plow drivers have time to go clean everything up before the morning commute, cuing the bus drivers to give the thumbs-up to the board. The result is a day where my regular commute of fifteen minutes gets tripled or quadrupled because snowplows don’t ever seem to come by the roads on which I drive. In addition, everyone else on the road is either a raving moron that hightails along at 140 km/h because they own a Jeep Liberty (mistakenly thinking of it as an SUV and not a teeny-tiny girlmobile), or a twitchy cat-owner that avoids the gas pedal like it’s a poisonous snake and they forgot their gumboots.
If the snow comes too late in the day, I end up being snowed in with a bunch of kids that are not allowed to go out for recess, turning the classroom into a cabin-fever-stricken nuthouse that reeks of adolescence.
But there is a magic hour, somewhere around the 5:00 AM mark, where everything lines up just right, where the plows (no matter how prepared) can’t get those main arteries opened up fast enough, where the highways are shut down, the driveway drifted up, and the garbage cans blown over.
Yes, I acknowledge that not everyone gets the day off when this happens. (Okay, to be fair, hardly anyone besides teachers do.)
But don’t forget that feeling from when you were a kid, when snow days were like surprise Christmases. All through my city, tens of thousands of kids are having a way better day today than they had ever hoped for last night. A surprise storm just dumped a whole pile of bliss along with some pretty decent packing snow, and that isn’t a terrible thing at all.
Especially for me.
Because I have a snow day.