Reader Advisory.  Iron Butterfly’s“In-A-Gada-Da-Vida,” and Simon and Garfunkel are referenced in this piece. If an earworm ensues, counteract it by singing “Bingo” (you know, “there was a boy who had a little dog and Bingo was his name-o…”)

Snow days

During grade school snow days, Chicky Ross, Danny Corsi, Tommy DiPetro and I used to sled until we were frozen stiff.  We didn’t know our clothes were soaked and frozen until we got next to the coal furnace in the basement, started steaming, our pants came off as a slab of ice and our legs were maraschino red.  We flashed down Beech Street’s steep quarter mile hill.  For an easy stop, we’d make a  sharp left at the bottom slow gliding to a stop on Maple Street, or make a sharp right onto Elm for one last lazy dip.  OR, for the sledding Samurai, we’d fly straight off the bottom of Beech ten feet into the air, then Slam! onto Ray Lakavich’s yard and plunge to a brush bordered creek. The Lakavich option’s mystique was enhanced by the likelihood of pursuit by irate Ray who didn’t want “goddamn kids diggin’ up” his “fucking yard.” Today’s salacious film scripts are drafted on the lawns of America.

High school snow days were spent lounging around the electric heater in Bill Menda’s attic reading Agatha Christie and listening to “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” (baby) or Eric Burden and the Animals wail “We gotta get out of this place.” (NYT, Jan 29, 2024, “Today’s Teenagers: Anxious About Their Futures and Disillusioned by Politicians”. Really.) Or, if I was yearning from a surfeit of Simon and Garfunkel, I took long walks through snowy woods with my dog, Ginger, dreaming (me, not Ginger) of Henry Mancini’s second cousin (see my reply to Jim’s comment on my DMV post) and planning to be the next JD Salinger.

Okay I’m gonna pull up, now, before I (as a friend warns) “drive into a ditch on Memory Lane,” because, the real point of this essay is now, as a retired Boomer, to my delight, every day is a snow day.

These days, when people ask me what I have scheduled, I reply, “nothing,” that magic word, which makes time not only relative, but optional.

Look, daffodils blooming.  A perfect snow day.

I was never a great swimmer, but I had the rudiments.
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Ah, the New England Blizzard of 1978. A storm so legendary it should have its own theme song, sung by a baritone with a healthy dose of post-traumatic stress. You know, something like “The Snow Drifts Were High, the Power Was Out, and My Shovel Became My Best Friend (And It Judged Me Silently).”

In Arlington, MA where I lived we were not spared the whiteout wrath. Picture this: me, a wide-eyed 20-something, armed with a plastic shovel that looked like it belonged on a children’s sandbox (because, well, it did). I dug, I huffed, I puffed, and managed to unearth my trusty Buick, christened “Rusty” for reasons unrelated to that current situation.

Victory! Except… not quite. Stepping out of my car turned snow-fort, I realized the world outside was a marshmallowy wasteland. Drifts towered like Arctic mountains, mocking my optimism. Any attempt to drive would have resulted in Rusty becoming a permanent snow sculpture with me as its shivering, frostbitten driver.

So, here I was, inside of my snowy Buick castle. My domain? The limited radius of my shoveling prowess. Entertainment? The radio, crackling with static and promises of a “major thaw” that seemed about as likely as winning the lottery with a chewed-up Megabucks ticket.

But hey, a blizzard like this is practically a rite of passage in New England. It’s when the true grit of us New England peoples shine through, or at least, when we discover our hidden talent for hoarding snacks. Because let’s face it, overcoming a blizzard without a well-stocked pantry is like facing a dragon without a sword (I myself would need at least a decent pizza cutter).

Thankfully, my foresight (or maybe just a severe case of potato chip-induced addiction) had me prepared. My fridge and pantry shelves had become a cornucopia of questionable frozen dinners, dubious canned goods, and enough raw pasta to fuel a small army of college students. I may not have been able to leave my snowy castle but I could conquer Mount Snackrifice with the gusto of a famished Yeti.

Days turned into nights, the only clock the rising and setting sun filtering through my blizzard-blurred windows. My social life, already questionable, became nonexistent. But in the quiet solitude, a strange sense of camaraderie bloomed. I waved at my neighbors through the window, their equally snowbound existence mirrored in their bewildered expressions. We were all in this together, united by our shared struggle against the Great White Buffalo (or whatever you call a blizzard with a superiority complex).

Finally, the thaw arrived. Slowly, the snowdrifts receded, revealing a world blinking in the sunlight like a sleepy owl. ‘Rusty’, freed from his icy prison, sputtered back to life with a cough and a wheeze. The world outside, though still scarred by the storm, was slowly returning to normal.

As I drove through the slush-filled streets, the experience left a strange imprint. Sure, it was inconvenient, messy, and frankly, a little scary. But it was also oddly… liberating? A reminder that sometimes, the most important things are the simple ones: a warm car, a full fridge, and the knowledge that even in the face of a blizzard, the human spirit (and a well-stocked pantry) can prevail.

So, the next time a winter storm threatens to turn my world into one giant snowball I will remember the Blizzard of ’78, embrace the absurdity, stock up on snacks, and definitely invest in a better shovel. Because who knows, I might just find myself the unlikely hero of my own snowbound adventure – again. Consider yourselves warned and don’t blame me if your only companions are a chorus of hungry squirrels and a fridge full of questionable leftovers.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a sudden craving for pasta and a strong urge to check the weather forecast. You know, just in case…

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