Jeff McNeal - January 2012

Snow Day

by

Jeff McNeal

Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching!-Ching!-Ching!-Ching!-Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching.
Snow chains! I smile but don’t open my eyes or uncover my head. I don’t move an inch from the spot that I’ve warmed into the sheet for fear of touching the surrounding white cotton ice hungry for a bite of my bare skin. My Mother’s words from the night before taunt me: “Jeffrey, put your pajamas on because it’s supposed to get real cold tonight.” Pajamas? Me? “Fruit of the Looms are good enough for Dad, so they’re good enough for me,” I’d said. “Suit yourself,” said she.
Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching!-Ching!-Ching!-Ching!-Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching.
Another unfortunate chain-clad car slowly approaches and passes. I am familiar with every morning sound that can be heard from this spot beneath the covers of my bed. I also know when familiar sounds are missing, and today the ubiquitous hiss of speeding tires on U.S. Route 50’s pavement a stone’s throw from my bedroom window has been replaced by the rise and fall of those magical Ching-Ching notes played upon packed snow. I smile.
Other than the muffled tinkle of chains, it is eerily quiet and peaceful beyond my window. I poke my head through the covers just enough to expose one eye to sneak a peek. My bedroom is lit with a brilliant snow-reflected morning sunlight as rare as the gentle melody coming from the passing cars. I roll the covers down to my chin and blow. Cripes! I can see my breath! I wish I had worn the pajamas.
Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching!-Ching!-Ching!-Ching!-Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching.
The smile widens. I have high hopes, but even an 8-year-old knows there comes a time when he must validate his optimism. The smile falters.
The #1 song during that December in 1958, “Christmas Don’t Be Late,” by Alvin and The Chipmunks, has just ended. I strain to hear the words coming from the kitchen radio, spoken by our local DJ at WCEM. The faint sound of his voice finally muscles its way through the crack beneath my bedroom door, pushing aside those wonderful aromas of toast, coffee and bacon. The words he speaks are Holy, words that every kid at Mount Pleasant Elementary has been waiting to hear since Labor Day: “Public Schools in Caroline, Dorchester and Talbot counties are closed today along with local government agencies, utility offices and…”
Ching-Ching no school. Ching-Ching no school? Ching-Ching no school! I pull the covers back over my head, close my eyes and smile.