The first two months of 2010 were a weatherman’s nightmare. Rain, cold, predicted snow, real snow, ice, wind – we had it all.
One Saturday all the news reports warned that a terrible snow storm was coming. And being good Southerners, we emptied our grocer’s shelves of bread, milk and eggs, called off church the next day and huddled in our caves, waiting for the blizzard – that never happened. Miles to the North, Asheville got clobbered (again!), the Georgia Mountains were impassable (again!), and we got nothing.
I tried not to be too disappointed – but I was. I love the occasional snowstorm, because it takes me back to the most Perfect Day that my little corner of the world ever experienced.
My parents had moved into their house the summer of 1966, and that winter we had a doozy of a snow day. There was no question of going to school; the roads were solid ice and impassable. My Mom and Dad stayed home from work, and everyone in my neighborhood, instead of staying indoors watching television or playing games, came to our house to welcome the new neighbors and play in the snow.
My cousin Jimmy and a few of his friends made a giant snowman, then decided it would be a good idea to tie a sheet of plywood to the bumper of their truck and carry passengers on it. This was quickly dismissed as too dangerous – then someone remarked how our driveway would make a great sled run.
Our house sat in a slight dip in the earth, with a driveway that made a horseshoe circuit around the back from one side to the other. The earth had not settled yet – it was steep and long, and with no cars on it, was as slick as any downhill ski slope.
It was like having your own fun park. For the first time in our lives, we kids didn’t have to ask our parents to play with us – they were asking us to play with them. Excited by the silliness of the adults frolicking around us, we were in a kind of kid heaven that parents so often forget about creating when they grow up.
The driveway became the focus of the entire neighborhood, and everyone ran, slid, belly-flopped and dove down it over and over. The entire day was filled with sliding, laughter, wild joy and the thrill of a fast track that, if you got a good start at the top, would take you all the way down to the line of my parent’s property, which fell away to railroad tracks some fifteen feet below.
Mother, caught up in the fun, ran around the house looking for anything that could double as a sled. Cookie sheets, flat pans, TV trays, shovel blades, a large dustpan my Dad had made her at work from a massive sheet of metal, even plastic buckets – all were sacrificed for the cause.
Our house became a makeshift ski lodge, with mom serving hot chocolate and tomato soup to all our guests. A steady stream of people tramped in and out all day, sopping wet, stamping feeling back into their frozen feet. They would grab one of my dad’s shirts, a styrofoam cup of cocoa or soup, then dash back out into the fun. The pile of sodden clothes grew higher and higher in the bathroom as the day went on.
My Dad, who had a gift for capturing great moments, grabbed his Super8 camera and used up a reel of film. It serves as a lovely scrapbook to my memories of the day: Cousin Vicki, plowing into the arms of her boyfriend and landing in a tangle of arms and legs. The breakneck speed in which the Durham boys flew down the hill – utterly fearless and full of the fierce joy that boys will have when they know they’re invincible. Me, scooching down the hill like a demented inchworm in the only thing I could find to slide on – a plastic bucket.
At one point I remember rocketing down the hill with my Dad, terrified and excited at the speed, utterly convinced we were going to fall off the cliff onto the railroad tracks and never be seen again.
I wished the day would never end, but of course, all good things do. As the afternoon grew late and the grey light waned, Mom insisted I finally come in and have something to eat. Though I was exhausted, I was furious to have to leave the fun. I could hear the wild screams and laughter of the others, all much older than me, and I was sad not to be a part of it anymore. It had been so special, playing with new friends and watching the grownups laughing and jumping around like we kids.
Gradually, everyone drifted back to their homes, tired and hungry and happy. I went to bed that night thinking we would wake up the next day and do it again, but, of course, we didn’t; the magic moment had passed. You can’t copy and paste life; it just keeps moving relentlessly on, until you look around one day and everything is smaller, and older, and less fun. Many of the people who were there that day are no longer with us. Even the long steep driveway has settled and flattened out over the years.
I have since spoken to several people who were there, and we all share the same memories of this day in some mystical collective. Each person remembers this day vividly and with the same fondness, even longing. The perfect day, when weather, comrades, opportunity and serendipity melded into a never-to-be-forgotten memory. Even Mom recalls her wrecked household and the nearly head-height pile of wet clothes with wistful yearning.
Special moments happen only once, and it’s easy to take our days for granted. Don’t miss the opportunity to make a special memory with your children and your loved ones. In the end, these are the greatest gifts we can give one another.
