Snow Day

Snow Day

I remember those winter days back in New England, back in the early 1960s in Manchester, Connecticut, before I became a teenager. Once or twice a year a storm came through and left enough new snow on the streets for the town to cancel school; this was called a snow day. This was always a welcome event, and sometimes the stars would align and the late evening radio would bring the news of school districts closed on the morrow. Barring early notice during a storm, I would awake before dawn and hold my ear to the radio as the announcer repeated the names of towns and school districts that cancelled classes, always in alphabetical order. The list was always long (“the Albert A. Aardvark School District will be closed today,….“), and I had to pay attention so as not to miss my school's closure. Upon hearing the good news, I went off to go skating or sledding, or other winter adventure.
 
Some times after a storm, when the snow was deep and the storm had ended in the early morning hours, a new opportunity presented itself, one of making money by shoveling driveways and sidewalks. These were the days before driveway snow blowers, and a heavy wet snow is an arduous thing to clear. If the snow was deep enough, I could make some real money.
 
On those mornings I was out in the cold early, trudging through drifts and dodging the large snowplows on the dark streets. When I found an un-shoveled drive, it was easy to tell if an earlier shoveler had already walked to the front door to proposition the owner. If the snow was deep and of the wet and heavy variety, I could get five to ten dollars for a small driveway and front walk, fifteen to twenty for doublewides and sidewalks or additional patios. The worm definitely went to the early bird when it came to shoveling, but it was work. With luck, I might get two or three good shoveling jobs in before too many other people were out shoveling to make further effort worthwhile. Then it was time to head for Marie’s, a local breakfast place with two pinball machines.
 
Marie’s Café was in a small commercial building along with two other businesses, and was located at a convergence of streets down the hill from where I lived. The building was set close to the road, with a dirt driveway that circled around the building. Pathways led from the driveway through the woods to the elementary school up on the hill. On one end of the building was Wallach’s Market, in the center was a barbershop, and Marie’s was at the other end.
 
Walking in the place on a winter snow day was always a memorable event. Steam filled the place as the hot and moist air within collided with the cold winter air at the door, and water from condensation ran down the inside of the large un-insulated front windows. Kids with a day off from school filled the small restaurant playing pinball, drinking coffee, and talking loudly.
 
Flush with twenty or thirty dollars in my pocket, I mingled with the other entrepreneurs who appreciated the art of pinball, all of the snow shovelers or newspaper delivery boys. There was no Internet then, and television was still in its infancy; in a world of limited options, pinball filled a special niche. At ten cents a game or three for a quarter, the pinball machines had coins lined up around the entire length of glass, and arguments would occasionally break out over which coins belonged to who. I felt like an adult hanging out with such a lively crowd, drinking coffee, and playing the machines; enjoying the fruits of my labors. All of this in the time when parents thought that pinball or pool led straight to hell and damnation, and a myriad of shiftless futures.
 
Occasionally, I would venture down to the north end of town, to Chef’s Diner, a louder and larger version of Marie’s, where tougher snow shovelers and paperboys hung out. These were real adventures, miles from home, and fraught with imaginary dangers. Trips such as these taught me the true meaning of free enterprise, opportunity, and personal liberty.
 
Looking back, it all seems so innocent and wonderful.