I have never won the big, life-changing, instant-retirement lottery. But then again, I only play when it reaches $1B, because I can’t be bothered with a measly couple of hundred million dollars. I do know how that would feel, though. It starts as simple as a kid sitting in front of the 6pm WLOS news waiting for the cold mid-January weekday forecast. Then suddenly, those magic words are uttered, “Tonight, possible snow showers.”
That night would be met with restlessness, tossing, turning, and getting up to check out the window to see if snow was visible against the glow of the streetlight. This was always a gamble; not enough sleep and no snow would mean a hard day at school.
This would mean getting up at normal school time, checking outside, and then sitting cross-legged in front of the TV with the news on, hoping the blue crawler showed that my school was out for the day. Yeah, getting up early on a day off — it’s actually not so bad with snow piling up on the ground.
News13 always showed their crawler in alphabetical order. The crawler always went forward, never pausing, so if you looked away for a moment, you were back to watching it. When I was a student in Buncombe County, it was great! For Elle, as a student in Transylvania County, not so much. The anticipation for me as an adult carried the same weight it did when I was a kid. I couldn’t wait for Elle and me to get out in the snow and let her imagination run.
Most Southern people do not own proper snow attire. I would usually find myself outside in a knit cap, a hoodie with a t-shirt underneath, jeans with long underwear, wool socks, and waterproof hiking boots. Luckily, Elle was better prepared with the appropriate coats, scarves, gloves, boots, and hat. While she was busy playing, I would be doing my best not to drown in all the water my jeans had accumulated.
The driveway was gravel, went straight down with no curves, and at the bottom was even a little berm before the ditch started. A perfect place for a snow sled to speed down. The sled I had as a kid was wooden with red metal rails and a red steering rod at the front. I didn’t know it, but you were supposed to wax the rails; I don’t think we ever owned any sled wax. Elle’s sled was a purple plastic two-seater with a yellow steering rope, and it would fly!
I would climb onto the back of the purple sled and put my feet down to anchor so it didn’t move. Elle would sit down in front of me, scoot as far back as she could, and then hand me the steering rope. “Ready?!” “Yeah!!” I would pull my feet off the ground, tuck them in beside her, and give a small push with my hands. Down the hill we flew! Within seconds, we were at the bottom, laughing and giggling. “Can we do it again?” “Sure!”
Elle: The snow’s too deep for me to walk back up the hill.
Me: Ummm
Elle: ….
Me: Get in the sled and I’ll pull you up the hill, but hold on and sit still so you don’t tip it over.
We went down the driveway at least five times, and each time ended with me pulling her in the sled back to the top of the hill. A real test of endurance, kind of like if you combined Rocky chasing the chickens and running up the steps into one exercise. Turns out the world only has so much oxygen, and I used it all that day.
E: One more time
M: Ummm, pant, pant
E: Hmmm?
M: Ummm, we have to go inside — the hot chocolate is getting cold
E: We haven’t made it yet
M: Exactly
I’m not a coffee drinker, but I am a hot chocolate drinker. I believe the perfect hot chocolate is made with Swiss Miss, milk instead of water, and those tiny marshmallows that almost fully melt before you take the first sip. Throw in some soggy jeans, a slightly sore back, and a daughter sipping her own while watching cartoons as the blue, out-of-school lottery crawler slowly scrolled at the bottom, revealing the next day’s closings.
