My Real Life

If you are of a certain age (my age) you are hopefully saying the title of today’s post in a Clara Peller voice.

(If you don’t know who Clara Peller is, you probably aren’t old enough for this blog.)

Grumpy old lady voice aside, it’s the question I have been asking myself all winter.

Where’s the snow?

I know many of you have had a freezing, snowy, stormy winter, and I am sorry for all of the trauma that has caused those of you who are struggling with this.

And please know that my desire for true winter weather does not diminish my sympathy for the issues that many of you are having with the same thing that I am wishing for.

I just miss my snow.

I live in New Jersey for a reason.

Well, for a lot of reasons, I guess, but one of the main ones is that I love the seasons.

Anyone who buys the hype of New Jersey being a highway only, over-crowded, armpit of America has never really been here. You might have flown into Newark airport and considered that to be New Jersey. You may have visited one city and taken that to be representative of the entire state.

It’s the equivalent of thinking that New York City is all that massive state has to offer and it’s just wrong.

I love watching New Jersey come alive in the spring, luxuriating in the summer sun on the beaches, and taking drives to see the amazing fall foliage that just doesn’t happen globally.

And in the winter, I love the snow.

I have always loved the snow.

Fall is my favorite season, but winter is a close second.

But only when there is snow.

My childhood winters were spent in snow forts, sled, having snowball fights, making snow angels, skating on Burnham Pond.

We’d suit up in the morning, feet in trash bags before our boots went on, snow pants, jackets, mittens, gloves, hats, scarves, and…being the 80’s…we knew we had to get ourselves geared up for a long, cold day with maybe one hot chocolate break in the middle of the day.

If we were lucky.

And we loved it.

In the snow, the world was new and the neighborhood, of which we already knew every inch, was transformed into a wonderland, full of new adventures.

My friend, Gail, had a backyard that was a straight down hill. We would spend hours sledding down that hill, slamming into the fence at the bottom, until her mother would come out and make us move before we broke the fence…again.

Then we would just find other hills to sled down, and after hours, finally exhausted of climbing back up the hills, we would lay in the snow and make angels.

With her brother, Greg, and the neighbors, Jennifer and Nicky, we would fashion, what we imagined to be, massive igloos and forts, in which we would take shelter from the ensuing snowball fight.

And finally, at the end of the day, we’d return to our homes, peel off our gear, watch the piles of snow, that had crept their way into our pant legs and sleeves, fall on the floor and melt.

Faces red, fingers numb, and bodies thoroughly exhausted from the physical joy of the day.

As an adult, I still enjoy the sledding, although I don’t have the same stamina for the climb up the hill.

And I’ve been known to pack a mean snowball and to hold my own in a snowball fight.

But, today, I love watching my kids do all the things that I used to do; not to live vicariously, but because they seem to get the same joy out of it.

They actively measure the snow on the deck, and giggle with glee once it surpasses the step up from the deck to the kitchen, and even further, the base of the sliding door. Because that, my friends, is “playing snow.”

They, too, don’t feel the cold, as they are caught up in the wonder of the moment, as evidenced by the time I looked out onto the deck to see how they were faring and found both of Tiny’s boots on the deck, and Tiny in the snow in his socks.

Our backyard, neglected for the majority of the year, becomes a slalom, a luge, a bobsled track, and for hours, they will play.

(I should clarify that the “they” which I discuss has dwindled down to Tiny and Baby Monkey, who always makes sure Tiny has someone to play with in the snow.)

I love standing outside and listening to the silence when the snow falls.

The world just settles and everything is muffled and quiet and for just a moment, the world feels at peace.

And, to be fully transparent, I love the anticipation of a snow day call.

Gone are the days of having to wake up at the crack of dawn to listen to 1250 am WMTR to see if they called our district off for the day, but I can find the same satisfaction in hearing my phone buzz with that lovely text.

And when it does, I can never fall back to sleep, but instead, I silently creep downstairs, make a cup of tea, build a fire in the fireplace, open a book, and settle in for the day under a blanket.

Can I build a fire any day of the year? Sure can.

Can I drink tea and read under a blanket any day? Of course.

But it just hits differently, knowing that there is nowhere I have to be, and even if there is, I probably shouldn’t brave the roads.

On a snowy day, I fully feel the hygge that I connect with my Danish ancestors. Outside it is cold and snowy, but inside, it is warm, and cozy, and calm.

I love looking up from my story every now and then, and seeing this in my backyard:

Just give me one, solid, good day of snow. At least 6″ of playing snow. Let my kids get the call that the day belongs to them, let me build my fire, and let me snuggle up and read.

However, not to be picky, but… let it happen after March 4 so we don’t have to cancel play practice.

Please, and thank you.