Last weekend nearly 30 inches of snow blanketed the East Coast, including my native New Jersey. I remember times like that when I was a child. I would sit on my bed, my nose pressed against the cold storm window as snow fell silently, covering the gray-brown winter landscape with a coat of white. I’d watch cars slip and slide as they tried to climb the hill on which our house sat. Often the oil trucks that came to fill our furnaces slid off the road while attempting to make their deliveries.
The snow delighted me for so many reasons. Perhaps the snowfall would be so heavy that school would be cancelled, and we’d have a snow day. A snow day meant bundling up in layers of woolens topped by waterproof clothing and heavy boots, trudging through the drifts to my best friend’s house, and spending hours outside together, building snowmen, throwing snowballs, and creating snow angels. When our lips turned blue and our clothing became soaked, we’d return home for hot cups of cocoa and lunch. An hour later, we’d dress in warm, dry clothing and return to our newly transformed world, perhaps with our sleds. This world became my wonderland. A snow day meant child’s play.