As a child, waiting for the ever elusive snow day was about all my soul could stand.
If the snow started while I was still in school, I would require constant redirection of my attention. My mind would swirl with the whiteness outdoors. Are the flakes small enough to keep falling? Will it continue through the night? Will it possibly be enough to scare the school superintendent into giving us that most magically of all days? The snow day.
The odd thing was that the snow day was always so long. It was a constant surprise that I couldn’t truly last that entire magic time on Suicide Hill with the fastest sled I owned. Eventually, I got cold, changed, got cold again, changed, baked cookies, got tired of getting wet and cold. Whew! it was exhausting.
The best place to spend the rest of my time was in my wondrous play house. It was huge. Well, still is. It is about the size of my current living room and kitchen combined. There were two lofts with a very cranky wooden ladder spanning them.
In the days when we had a backyard flock of sheep, the early lambs waited for me in a three dimensional maze of hay. Only the lambs and I could find our way through. I warmed bottles of milk fortified with molasses and set out to snuggle in with my wiggly tailed friends.
Together, we contemplated the snow, discussed the problems of being young, and took cozy comfort in the sound of each others hearts.
The day usually closed on my mother awaking me from my toasty pillow of snoring lambs.
“Time to come in. Tomorrow is a school day.”
BTW, Check out the beautiful painting, by Joanne Benson, of my beloved playhouse. She titled it “Shed in Late Day Winter Light,” ’cause she just didn’t know that it was my magical playhouse. Click here to view.