"Snow Day," by Mary Chittle

“Alright! Snow stuff on everyone!” calls my mom from down the hall. 

Today is a snow day, and a snow day is not to be wasted indoors. A flurry of footsteps pound through the kitchen as my 8 siblings and I stampede towards the mudroom. I grab my boots, snow pants, and coat, snagging my favorite hat and gloves from the mitten tree where they have been drying in front of the heater. I bring them back to the living room where I will have more room to work. On the way there, I pass Mom wrestling Toby into his snowsuit, him urging her to hurry. It is always a race to see who can get dressed and out the door first.

Today, I want to win for once. 

I stuff my pants into the tops of my socks–it helps you to not get snow in your feet– and pull my snow pants on. This year is the first year my snow pants didn’t have suspenders, I am finally a big kid (sure, this means that I get a lot more snow down my back that melts into my pants, but that is a small price to pay for big kid status). 

Next to me, my older sister Abby already has one boot on. No way am I letting her beat me. I shove one boot on, then the second, yanking the elastic band at the bottom of my snow pants over the rubber tops of my bogs. Next my coat– “Grab your sleeve, Steve!” Mom always told us so our long sleeves didn’t get bunched up around our elbows. Finally, I don my sparkly purple hat and my blue mittens. I’m ready.

I run for the door to the garage, victory in sight. 

But before I can grab the knob, Adam is there in front of me, smirking as he pulls the door open and saunters out (older brothers are the worst). I trudge out behind him and walk alongside our big blue van until I reach the edge of the garage and step onto the icy driveway (Dad snow-blowed it before he left for work; I guess principals don’t get snow days) and am immediately rendered blind by the brilliant sunlight, which is magnified by the freshly fallen snow. 

The rest of my siblings stumble into the brightness, everyone squinting through one eye, struggling to adjust to the sunlight. Mom comes out last, making sure the door is shut to keep the cold from penetrating the house. 

“Grab the sleds and let’s head to The Circle. Everyone has to carry one.” 

The Circle is the cul-de-sac at the end of our neighborhood where the snowplow dumps all the snow, and therefore has the best snow piles, perfect for sledding when our little front yard slope isn’t good enough and we don’t want to go all the way to the Berta’s hill (the big hill). It’s also where we scooter in the summertime, the only place we can scooter without mom or dad (our neighborhood has no outlet to M-72, the busy highway through the woods, so there’s never much traffic).

“Can you pull me, Mommy?” Toby asks. He’s only three, so he isn’t subject to the sled-carrying mandate, and he probably won’t have to walk all the way either. 

“Ask one of your brothers or sisters, I have to pull Iggy,” Mom responds, buckling my one-year-old youngest brother into his light blue baby-sled with the extra wide base to prevent sharp turns and baby spills. 

Toby turns to survey his options–who is the most likely to say yes? He knows better than to ask Adam, because he’d just dump Toby into a snowbank at the first chance. Abby would probably say yes–she’s a suck-up sometimes. 

I quickly volunteer: “I’ll pull you Tobes, go grab the Torpedo” (the Torpedo is the best pulling sled, but also the fastest for downhill sledding). If I’m good and extra helpful, maybe Mom will let me have hot cocoa when we get back (I guess I’m the suck-up today). With a grin, Toby runs to the porch to acquire his chariot. He scrambles up the icy steps and slip-slides his way back down, Torpedo in tow. 

After settling an argument between Emma and Bella about who gets the blue saucer sled and who is stuck with the red one (somehow it’s slower, despite being the same brand, both bought at the same Ace Hardware, right next to our Church), Mom starts pulling Iggy towards The Circle. Adam and Abby are already halfway there, sleds atop their heads, with Adam stopping every few feet to slide the next few on his knees, relishing the iciness of the road. 

Gabi and Juju are waiting at the bottom of the driveway, Gabi already complaining that she’s freezing. I roll my eyes and tell her to toughen up as I pass her, even though my nose is cold and there’s a definite bite to the breeze. Torpedo rope around my waist, I step over the small bank left at the end of the driveway by the snowplow, Toby almost falling out as the Torpedo scrapes over a hardened chunk of snow. 

By the time we get to The Circle, I’m no longer even a bit cold. Pulling a sled in big clunky boots while wrapped in layers of snow gear will warm you right up, I promise. 

The snow piles are beautiful, pristine, nearly untouched by footprints. But not entirely, and not for long. My siblings have already begun their damage, and I quickly join the fray. Luckily, this isn’t the first big snow of the year, so beneath the two-plus feet of pure fluff are hardened mountains of snow and ice. This new layer will make sledding down them even faster, like adding soap to a slip-n-slide.

The outer bank of The Circle, the ring around the outside, is the border wall, holding it all in, broken only by where the snowplow pushes inwards to clear the road. Then there’s the central range, in the center. That’s where the best sledding is. 

But The Circle isn’t all mountains. There’s also no-man’s land, the flat expanse behind the central range, between it and the border wall. That’s where you end up if you’re pushed off the pile during King of the Mountain (which always ends in tears, but we always play it anyways–and Adam always wins). 

I abandon Toby, even sacrificing my claim on the Torpedo when the game begins with Bella yelling (foolishly; she doesn’t stand a chance, and she’s typically the one who cries): 

“I’m the King of the Hill!” 

Chaos ensues. 

After dumping and being dumped off the central range plenty of times, Abby and I head to the outer bank to see if we can walk along the edge. It’s harder than it looks, and we keep slipping. So, we decide to fall off on purpose instead. 

We stand straight as soldiers, back to no-man’s land–which is still mostly untouched, at least where we are. On the count of three, we fall backward, keeping our legs locked and knees unbent. We sink immediately two feet deep into the fresh powder, and it plumes upward, burying us beneath the fluffy crystals. We both yelp in surprise; we weren’t expecting to end up underneath so much snow. I can’t see the sky anymore, and when I breathe in, all I get is snow and an instant brain freeze. Abby and I claw our way back up to standing, both sputtering and wiping our eyes.

That’s when I realize how much snow has gotten into my coat and is slowly melting its way down my back and into my pants. By the disgruntled expression on Abby’s face, she is experiencing the same thing.

It’s time to go home. 

Everyone else is ready too, tired out from sledding, snowball fights, and battles for the throne. We all trudge back home, wet and cold, but happy, glad to be home playing in the snow instead of sitting in school looking longingly out the window as the teacher drones on. When we get home, we hang up our sodden clothes (“No mittens left on the floor! They won’t dry and then you’ll be left with cold wet hands tomorrow!”). 

Red-faced and clear-eyed, we sit down at the table to watch some Backyardigans while Mom makes us chicken dinos and hot cocoa (I guess we were good; she even lets us have mini marshmallows!).