The silence is overwhelming -- in a good way. The skies, bulging gray against the darkness of early morning, appear heavy and on the verge of tumbling to the ground. Tree branches creak in their ice-laden sway, grass crunches underfoot as tentative steps are made. With each breath, plumes of white vapor tangle with the breeze, creating the only movement in view. Everything is still. Everything is quiet. Standing as an adult on the verge of a snow day brought back the glory days of memory.
Back in the '80s, my brothers and I would plant our faces against the cold window glass, staring into the gray skies and hoping for just one flake to fall, just one leader that would start the charge into a real snowfall. Our sister, still too young for school, played happily behind us, wondering what all the angst was about. Finally, my older brother would throw the front door open and stand outside.
"Smells like snow."
"What? What does that even mean?"
"You know, the sky kinda smells like it's about to snow."
"Snow doesn't smell, idiot."
"Sure it does," he said with confidence.
Now, I smell it every time winter weather approaches. A snow day does have a scent, one that's a combination of moisture and cold, hibernation and wood-burning fireplaces.
Finally, thankfully, a few flakes would fall and the streets would begin their transformation from deep asphalt to pale softness. When that transformation took place, we'd turn from the windows to the television sets, from watching for precipitation to watching for a school closed notice. This was no sure bet. We knew we were up against an unmoving mountain: Sister Henrietta.
Sister Henrietta was the superintendent of Catholic schools and she held every school day in an iron fist. She didn't like to close little minds to learning when they could be in classrooms working hard and expanding with every lesson. A couple of inches on the roads? School open. Bridges slick from ice? School open. Sporadic power outages across the city? School open. We once watched our school's bus slide sideways down a hill behind my dad's stopped station wagon. The kids still made it to class on time. What would it take for her to shut it down?
We finally received our answer. It'd take a deep and lasting snowfall, one that wouldn't melt in a few hours or be easily cleared away by the city. It'd take a snowfall like we received Monday.
Oh man, our anxiety would grow into the stratosphere when the news anchors announced the closed school listings, naming every school in our area but leaving ours out. "Surely," we'd whisper to ourselves. Finally, the word would come down from Sr. Henrietta's Olympus -- the Diocese -- and the fun would start.
Yes, we'd sled the neighborhood hills and build snow forts and pelt each other mercilessly. We'd follow animal tracks and break the frozen creeks with massive rocks. I remember one time an older kid in my neighborhood attached a ski rope to the back of his Jeep and hauled several of us on sleds up the winding Millbrook hill. Another time we ventured over to Reservoir Road and tried to get down one hill so fast we'd make it up the next one and then down again.
Finally, we'd come inside, red-cheeked, exhausted, no feeling in our fingertips, and gorge on hot chocolate and soup and head out again. It was all exciting and invigorating. All because of a simple, natural transformation.
Later, I'd experience my own kids and their snow-day anticipation. The older ones watched for school closings on television as I did. The younger ones waited for an email or text message. Now, they openly wonder whether they'll be given snow days or be sentenced to virtual school.
No matter the era, the same ritual played out. We'd pull the Flexible Flyer from the garage and wipe down the toboggans to find the hills in my neighborhood. We had our accidents -- a few fingertips caught under the rails, and the slow-motion accident in which young Sam slowly -- very slowly -- sledded into a tree. The sled was barely moving on impact. It was just enough to cause Sam to lurch forward and smack his forehead. Explaining that goose egg to his mother didn't go over well.
Standing in my yard earlier this week, I marveled at the transformation. The overwhelming silence, the vapors trailing with every breath and dancing on my hot coffee cup caused me to think about how a simple change of pace cures the soul, feeds introspection, heals even the deepest angst caused by an uncertain atmosphere. It seems that snow days in Arkansas still possess a bit of magic, no matter how old the admirer might be. It's different here. It's not so common that no one notices, but not so new that no one knows what to do. Instead, it's just a good break from a February week. It's a good reason to revel in the fun of change and in the common bonds we possess.
Sr. Henrietta is gone now. But I know that this week, even she'd fill her lungs with the deep, cleansing breaths of transformation. She'd tilt her head back and watch the snow fall from heaven to the earth. She'd see it for what it is.
A reminder, a chance, to make everything clean, pure again.
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Steve Straessle is the principal of Little Rock Catholic High School for Boys. You can reach him at sstraessle@lrchs.org. Find him on Twitter @steve_straessle.