Ah, those winters of the past. Here I am with a backyard pal. Me and Frosty in the backyard. I doubt I had little to do with his erection, so to speak. My guess is that my father crafted him and I was just made available for these Technicolor photo ops that Dad longed for.
Only folks who grew up in the cold can fully appreciate the heavenly nirvana that the winter season often provided those of us in the younger demos.
A snow day.
This is what kids lived for. Indeed, the weather stars had to align perfectly and almost magically for us to get a day off from school. Ideally, you prayed for a big snow storm that would begin around 9PM on Sunday. Then it had to go all night long. That would result in teachers getting stuck coming back from a weekend. A healthy snowfall in the overnight hours could potentially screw up the entire school week.
Sweet.
Now, living in Mount Vernon and in close proximity to New York City, our snow days were tougher to come by. Mount Vernon liked to fancy itself as tough a gotham as the five boroughs to the south. It was hard to get a snow day in New York City. Mount Vernon was almost as difficult. Half the time, the two school systems played a game of chicken, waiting to see who was going to cave into the snow drifts first.
But, if you went to bed and it was snowing, you could dream. And wait for the alert. Oh, sure, there were the radio stations that listed school closings. You'd wait alongside the radio to hear your mom's favorite morning host and hold your breath.
"Rye Country Day School closed. All South Salem schools closed. All White Plains schools closed. Mount Vernon schools will be open."
Shit.
Or whatever expletive I would use when I was a seven-year-old.
In Mount Vernon, there was another snow day alert system in place. If schools were to be closed due to inclement weather, they would sound the loud piercing fire whistle at both 7AM and 8AM. It was terrifying to listen to, but glorious at the same time. It meant that schools were closed for the snow storm. Or we were being bombed by Russia.
If it was confirmed that I was now free for the day, I could leisurely go about my favorite indoor activities. Colorforms. Reading my current book borrowed from the public library. "I Love Lucy" reruns. "The Hollywood Squares." All would be sheer bliss until the expected cry from below. Either from my grandparents or my parents.
"Come help shovel!"
Fuck.
Or whatever expletive I might use as a ten-year-old.
When I countered that I was just a kid and of little help, I'd get a horrible threat thrown right back at me.
"Do you want your father to have a heart attack and die?"
Well, er, no.
I'd go outside and make a feeble attempt at pushing some snow around.
Eventually, Dad would notice.
"Oh, you're just making a mess. Go in the house."
Done.
Once the clean-up was over, I was free and clear to go play in the snow. If drifts were high enough in the yard, I'd take my dog Tuffy and watch her get lost in the yard. When I got older and graduated from cute little snowmen, we'd focus our time on constructing snow forts from the huge hills plowed by the Sanitation Department in the street. I'd seek out my neighborhood best friend Leo and we'd have ourselves a time defending some Alaskan stronghold from enemy attackers.
Or with the slight slope of 15th Avenue, we'd all commence belly flopping and hit the sleds. You had to be crafty at the bottom of the incline or else you would sled yourself right into busy traffic on First Street. Down there, you'd find some of the more sinister neighborhood urchins engaged in more diabolical winter activities. Throwing iceballs at bus windows whizzing by.
Looking back, I don't think we had more than a handful of these snow days. The one I remember most happened around my birthday in February. A Sunday night storm that lasted into Monday. We didn't go anywhere for three days. If you lived in Queens where New York Mayor John Lindsay had forgotten that he had snow plows, you didn't leave your block until April.
When I went to college, we absolutely craved the prospect of a crippling snow storm for completely different reasons. Holed up in the co-ed dorms with no classes. Sadly, it never happened during my four years at Fordham. Essentially, the Jesuit-based school administration told us to go to chapel and pray to the Virgin Mary that the snow would melt. As a Protestant, I didn't even bother. So much for twelve inches of snow and some sex, beer, and rock and roll.
Once you start working for a living, snow stories are no longer anticipated with glee. Because, even with eight inches of the white stuff on the ground, that usually isn't enough to close your office. When I commuted to Manhattan from Westchester, I used to laugh at the folks in the office around me. Those who had to travel the further in the blizzard all made it to work. The Manhattan dwellers, meanwhile, had major problems simply trying to cross the street.
I do recall one blizzard that crippled everybody and closed offices all over New York. Again, it was a perfectly timed storm. On January 8, 1996. It started to snow around 8PM on Sunday and it didn't stop until Tuesday afternoon. The entire metropolitan area came to a screeching halt.
As for yours truly, I hunkered down in my Westchester apartment and even remembered swimming laps in the pool downstairs. An odd thing to do on one of the worst days of the winter. I subsisted on chicken noodle soup, Taylor Ham sandwiches, and Turner Classic Movies. And ultimately unplugged the phone to stop all the annoying telemarketing calls that come in during the daytime hours.
By Thursday, New York tried to go back to work. The only problem was that Westchester commuters had no way into the city. Metro North had about five trains left that weren't stuck in some Doctor Zhivago-like snow drift. And it was even worse trying to get home. At 5PM, Grand Central Station was so crowded that it looked like Ellis Island in 1912.
To make a bad night horrific, my train north broke down at the Sputen Duyvil station in the Bronx. We were all cast adrift in some dark neighborhood, each city block more sinister than the next. I had to piece together a route home that included a bus, a subway, and a lot of walking through slushy water. I didn't get home until 9PM. My feet didn't dry until August.
That would be the last major snowstorm I would live through as a New Yorker. I moved to Los Angeles the following year. Now, when I go back East, a few inches of snow are a personal delight. Because I know that I'm not there on a permanent basis. I always know I can go home. Where a predicted 20% percent chance of rain can cripple Beverly Hills.
And send me to the crockpot.
Dinner last night: Pepperoni pizza at Stella Barra.
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