I let my mother talk me into participating in a fashion show in January 1966. What she did not tell me was that I was going to be a sleepwear model -- an assignment that she knew that I would have never agreed to. As we left the VFW Hall that evening, snow was blowing in a savage, icy wind, chilling us all to the bone. The ten minute trip home took closer to thirty as my grandmother navigated the slick streets.
As we rose the next morning to the sounds of the WJR school closings, we looked out the window -- gee, it did not look that bad. We dressed in uniform and headed downstairs where the first chore was to put out the dog -- an aging Pekingese who stood less than six inches high at the shoulder. Dad opened the door, hooked the chain to the dog''s harness and released him to see him disappear from view on the very first step. He looked and saw the dog at the bottom of a 12 inch depression. He hauled the dog back in and dressed for snow shoveling while the rest of us listened to see if Sacred Heart was going to close -- we lived close enough to the school that we would be expected to trudge through the snow to make it to school on time.
As it got later, my sister and I dressed for the walk through the snow -- normally ten minutes, it would be more like thirty on a day with such a deep, fresh snowfall. We were just getting ready to walk out the door when the closing announcement finally came over the radio.
Off we headed to redress for snow shoveling. Dad had finally kicked enough snow away from the door of the detached garage to get it open. As he retrieved one of the snow shovels, his first act was to shovel a path for the dog, so that the tiny animal could complete his morning business.
Four hours later, with three of us working through the 18 inch snow, with some much deeper drifts, we finally had the driveway and sidewalks cleared -- each ribbon of concrete framed by two or more feet of snow.
For my sister and I that was when the fun really began -- because Dad was also officially off work since he could not get out past the driveway. Dad was home on a weekday! Out came the board games: Clue and Risk and Monopoly. The three of us sat and partied while Mom tried to get her chores done around us -- Moms don''t get snow days. Sometime around dinnertime, she finally gave up, put out some food for buffet and sat down to join us as we switched to cutthroat pinochle.
The next day -- a Friday -- was also a snow day. Dad was home; we were out of school; the party continued with only a brief interlude to walk across a deserted Gratiot Avenue to Reid Drug for odds and ends to eat and drink.
The next day brought us back to reality as the streets were finally cleared; I headed to school to practice my public speaking entry; and, Dad went into work to try to clear the backlog of two days off. Real snow days are treasures to be cherished and remembered.
