I got up early and peered out the window. Instead of less than an inch of forecast snow, it covered my tires up to the rims, a good three—maybe four—inches. I squinted through the window. Tiny flakes still fell, driven by the wind.
I went to the Internet to confirm my fears. No school. Snow all day, tapering off after dark, then clearing skies and plummeting temperatures with strong, northerly winds. I got dressed. I had to clear the drive so I could leave for work an hour early, but the boys would have a snow day, probably two, and end up with a four-day weekend.
James woke first and came running out of his room. “Dad! Dad! It snowed! Is there school today?”
“Nope.”
He gave a whoop and ran to wake his brother. I heard Ian yelp and jump from his bed and I smiled, remembering the excitement of my own snow days.
By Sunday, everything had changed. No longer an unbroken blanket of pure white, the snow looked a mess, trodden and dirty. Nobody wanted to play outside under gloomy skies and in subfreezing temperatures.
Even worse, the boys were bored and snapping at one another. Video games, DVDs and tablet computers weren’t enough. I had TV, only three channels with game shows in the mornings and soap operas in the afternoons. I’d never admit it, but I loved going back to school.
Ian moped into the room on Sunday night. “Will there be school tomorrow?”
“I haven’t heard, but I think so. The roads are clear, and it should be warmer. Probably yes.”
“Rats.”
I heard his speech. I saw his mouth form the word. I know what he said. But I saw his eyes, too, and a flash of joy. Quickly hidden.
William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.