As a youth, my sister and I would pray for the nights when we would see North Vermillion Community School Corporation scroll across the bottom of the screen. These precious days would happen about once a year and if we were lucky maybe twice. We would go to bed more often than not disappointed and hoping that Mr. Kilgore would come to his senses and call us off. You had to wonder if he had ever ridden the bus with Kenny Wilson, Louann Huffman or even better Bob Ping. If Mr. Kilgore had then he surely wouldn't be risking our precious lives with their snow driving prowess? (Side note- All were exceptional drivers but at the ripe, old age of 7 or 8 they seemed like the worst if they wouldn't let us have our snow day.)
We would go to sleep reluctantly hoping that the snow would fall with a vengeance at night. I can remember peering out my window in the wee hours to check the depth of snow on the roads. If it would appear to be four to six inches tall I would snuggle in content with the knowledge that we would probably not be going to the torture factory. If I could hear the wind blowing I would get really excited. That could mean multiple days off with drifts high over my head. Dreams of snow forts and tunnels would keep me tossing and turning all night long.
Getting up the morning of a snow day was always special. Either a medley of snow swirling and dancing around the windows greeted us or the sun would be shining on an amazing display of nature's white cathedral with blinding intensity. We would eat a filling breakfast and beginning harassing our mother about getting outside. Generally she would make us wait until mid-morning before venturing forth. For some reason, just like waiting an hour after eating before swimming, my mother made us wait an hour after eating before running into the snow.
Out the door we would gush, falling into the snow without a care, it would caress us with its cold embrace as we flailed about to make a snow angel. We then tried to get up and jump out of the snow angel without messing it up. The impressive girth of our snowsuits made us look like the kid in A Christmas Story and often found us waddling around and flopping down just as he did. Next we would charge the door to the yard barn where Dad would have already fetched the sled and toboggans down from the haymow. Judging the snow, powder versus ice, we would select the ride that would best hurtle us down the hills in the back yard towards death by drowning on the acre and a half farm pond in the back yard.
The first person down the hill was not a fun prospect. Faced with mashing the snow they would often have to wallow around to get the sled to creep down the hillside. Near the bottom, the sled would usually gather and push all of the snow into an embankment that you would then have to choose to push yourself around or give up and begin the climb back to the top. One by one we would all take our turns creating winding paths by shifting our weight to the sides to move as far down the hill as we could. Eventually the wind would begin to drag the tears out of our eyes as it whipped past our faces swallowed our giggles and laughs.
Two rules about sledding with us. If you are going slow expect to be run over by someone coming along fast behind you. Ground into the snow you would often find that being hit once was not enough and a whole line of relatives would be taking a shot at knocking you back into the snow. Brutal as this was it was nothing compared to the climb back to the top. There was no chair lift. It would take us forever to climb back to the top and get ready to go again. Rule two was do not under any circumstance let go of your sled rope. If you dropped your tow rope on the way up or stopped at the top to adjust your hat it would take less than an instant for you to see your sled careening empty down what would begin to feel like a mountain. At times we would have to pray that the sled would stop as many times it would shoot out onto the ice on the pound and skid all the way across to the brush on the other side.
How we reached adulthood before ever plunging into the icy depths of the pond is beyond me. We would watch one of the dogs first to see how the ice sounded when they went out on the pond. The we would tap a foot, stomp a foot and eventually jump up and down in the shallows to check whether the pond would hold. If we could make it out onto the ice without any cracking or popping sounds we were good to go get the runaway sled. At this point the sledding devolved into sliding around the ice, falling on our posteriors and generally acting like idiots while we tried to see who could fling each other the farthest across the ice.Our Moon boots weren't the best at holding traction but they made us all feel a little bigger than we actually were. I can remember thinking I was Frankenstein in my Moon boots stomping and mashing all the snow.
With icicles hanging from our stocking hats, boogers frozen in our scarves, and usually our feet thoroughly soaked from snow getting into our boots we would finish up by yelling "Snowball fight!" We would push up mounds of snow with our sleds to hide behind and then the older cousins would rain freezing balls of slush, mud and snow down on the younger less fortunate Hicks kids. Snow would get everywhere, down our jackets, in our faces, gloves, and any possible hole that would allow the cold in. We would even occasionally throw a snowball that would break right throw the plastic sleds. The sleds would get so cold and brittle that a perfect hole would appear as the snowball went sailing through. I think we finished off a basketball backboard once during an especially ferocious melee. (Don't ask about aim. It was a wonder if half of our snowballs even came close to the intended target. It was more likely we would run into a snowball meant for someone else than we would actually hit each other.)
Inside we would strip and jump into the shower or bath. It was amazing how we could sweat through the bottom layers of our clothing and still be so cold that the hot water would feel like a thousand needles poking us at once as we warmed up. Mom would usually have a hearty soup and hot chocolate waiting for us or my Aunt would have some tasty Coconut Macaroons available and we would descend like a pack of wolves to gnosh our way through the eats.
Snow day nearly over we would fire up the Nintendo or more likely pass out watching an afternoon cartoon. I am sure our parents were thrilled that we would be exhausted and quiet for a few hours before we would be up again watching that TV crawler for the announcement of a bonus day. That heavenly experience of not one but two days away from school, free to do our best to catch pneumonia while building a snowman or climbing to the top of a plowed snowbank to play King or Queen of the Hill!
Now that I think about it. I think I would like to be back home watching the snow from the fireside. Peacefully putting a puzzle together or reading a book. My childhood sounds like a lot of work.