Missourian reporter Lindsey Davison spent childhood snow days in the hills of the Ozarks in Fayetteville, Ark. Here's her recollection:
I remember snow days in elementary school, when I was sent to my grandmother’s house. She would make me peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches, cut into four triangles and put on a plate that was painted like a watermelon. Then she would dress me in a hot pink snow suit that didn’t match my personality and let me play in the snow in her backyard. An hour later, I would hear the glass door slide open a couple inches, and her deep Southern accent would echo through the stillness.
“Leendsey Jane, you gittin’ coldie out there?”
I always shook my head no; I never got cold. I wanted to spend forever in the snow.
But it’s my first snow day without my grandmother. I made myself a peanut butter sandwich, no jelly, on a plain white paper plate.
When I step outside Tuesday, the snow has stopped falling from the sky. It’s nearly 11 p.m. and everyone is already inside their apartments, bundled up for the night. I see some of them through the golden glow of their windows, catching up on homework or sipping from mugs. I stand alone in the blanketed courtyard, silently taking in the white all around me. It’s quiet except for the yawn of an HVAC unit. Darkness, falling around the buildings and trees, meets the snow at my feet.
I shuffle toward my window, making sure my brown boots don’t land on a slick spot, and bring my gloved hand up to the glass. The thin material doesn’t provide much protection from the chill. It sends a shiver down my spine, and my bones begin to feel frigid.
Suddenly, I wish it was snowing again, so I could climb it like a rock wall: propping my foot on a flake in midair to propel myself upward, curling my fingers around another flake and pulling myself into the air. I would climb, climb, climb until I reached the top of the clouds.
Then, I would look up and speak to my grandmother.
“Mamaw, I’m finally cold.”