My juvenile memories of heavy snows (this one topped seven inches) revolve around the novelty of being home in the middle of the day — something that feels like summer vacation or life before school, when you are young. Only with a wedding-cake layer of snow on the ground, you have the added perk that no one can make you go anywhere or do anything on a schedule, praise the Lord, and best of all — for a hardcore introvert — people can’t get AT you.
(I remember that once my parents got pissy about some fight I’d gotten into at the community swingsets and told me I had to go to my room. It was awesome. I read as much as I wanted. I wouldn’t have gotten into a fight anyway if they hadn’t made me go out and play on those goddam swingsets.)
Even better is the light. Right now, the ground is white, the roofs of all the houses are white, the sky is white. A few flakes are blowing around, but I can’t really tell if they’re falling as original precipitation or just getting jostled off the shrubbery and dormers. Light, filtered but muscular, is coming from everywhere at once; there are almost no shadows indoors or out. It’s like living in a luminous bubble, like the penetrating light C. S. Lewis described in his science-fiction trilogy, when his hero was kidnapped to Mars in an H. G. Wellsian spaceship and discovered that space was neither dark nor empty but saturated with solar energy. (Lewis’ science was just up to the task, at best, but his sense of rapture at nature always transcended his rickety Christianity.)
In real life, I have a client who has no problem with a short drive over plowed and already drying roads, but I’m going to pretend it’s 1966 or 1969 and everything has come to a screeching halt, and pull a book down until the suffering lad arrives.
This guy knows how to deal with a day like this.