Snow Day

by Billy Coffey

  My children were extraordinarily alive. Sometimes that seemed to be more of a curse than a blessing. I would scold them occasionally for being too loud or rambunctious or… mobile. My kids seemed to be in a constant state of flux.

  They attacked life. I was constantly in retreat of it. They drank deeply from its springs. I would often take a mere sip and then go sit down for a while. To them, the world was a marvelous place of exceeding wonder and delight. I sometimes felt the same, but that was usually only on Saturdays, or when the Yanks and the Sox were on television.

  I was angry with them at times. What parent isn’t? But I realized then that it really wasn’t anger I was feeling. It was jealousy.

  Jesus said that the kingdom of heaven belonged to those like children. I could see why. The world did not pollute them. They didn’t know the meaning of doubt. They didn’t know greed or hate, only love and joy in abundance. And because of all those things, my children enjoyed a closeness with God I did not. I could hear it in their prayers. I could see it in their lives. I realized then that maybe I’d been doing the parenting thing wrong. I had always tried to turn my kids into me. Maybe I should have been trying to turn me into my kids.

  “It’s a good day,” Josh said, breaking the silence. It was another one of his favorite sayings. This one was spot-on, too.

  “It truly is,” I answered him.

  “Daddy?” asked Sara through her hot chocolate mustache.

  “Yeah, honey?”

  “What’s a bad day?”

  I had to think about that. What was a bad day?

  “A bad day is when people don’t realize what God has given them,” I said.

  And we rocked.

  15

  Michael Pannill’s Triumph

  My reverie was interrupted by Josh’s hot chocolate spilling onto my lap. I jerked my leg away in reflex and turned to him, intending to remind him to watch what he was doing. I changed my mind when I saw that the spill was more the result of shivering than clumsiness.

  I glanced over to check Sara, who had been conspicuously quiet for a while herself. Our backyard foray had ensconced what hair was showing under her toboggan cap in a thin layer of ice. A low hum was being emitted through her chattering teeth and her lips had taken on the bluish hue of her coat. Both of my children seemed to remember from the previous winter that playing in the snow was fun, but they actually had to play in it again to remember that it was also cold.

  I gathered them up and took them inside, where Abby shepherded them to the fireplace to dry out. Yawns and grumpiness ensued, and all parties agreed it was time for a nap. With children in bed and wife still baking, I decided to go and sit outside a while longer.

  Snowstorms have a way of clearing things, whether the air or the mind. They swoop in and put a halt to everything and in their wake leave a stillness in our surroundings that is sadly lacking most of the time. As much as I had always tried to avoid winter by thinking of spring, I did relish that brief period of time just after the last snowflake had fallen and just before the everyday bustle of life resumed. The quietness of a December snow was one of the true pleasures of life, and one I was not going to miss despite my aversion to the cold.

  So I sat and rocked, enjoying the silence and knowing it wouldn’t last long. The sun was too bright and the melting already begun. Many of the neighborhood children had been outside for a while, and there were a few adults milling about. Those who had not yet appeared would soon creep out to clean off vehicles and driveways. Whatever level of enjoyment to be had would correspond to whatever duties needed to be fulfilled. If the only objective was fun, plenty could be found. But it was hard to enjoy the snow if you were holding a shovel instead of a sled.

  A group of juvenile thrill-seekers walked by my house about twenty minutes later. Four boys aged about nine, dragging their sleds behind them. The Baptist church on the other side of the neighborhood was their likeliest destination. There was a steep hill there in the back of the parking lot that had taken many of the neighborhood children on rides through the years, some down the hill and some to the hospital. It was always the place to go when the snowfall exceeded four inches or so.

  I noticed that the one in front had both the oldest sled and the rapt attention of the other three. The leader, no doubt. The one with all the sledding experience. He was regaling his friends with tales of the hill. It was steep, he said, real steep, and there was no stopping once you started down. And you had to watch for the rocks, too. Some of them stuck out of the ground a couple of inches, and you wouldn’t be able to see them with the snow. But you would sure feel them, especially if you hit one of them wrong and went tumbling. He told of the boy the previous year who had been thrown by one. He went head over heels down the hill and smacked himself against a neighbor’s woodpile. Got a nice shiner for his trouble, too. But just hang on and pay attention, he said, or you’re gonna get hurt. Bad.

  He stopped cold and turned around to say those last few words, just to add to the drama. His narrative had the desired effect on the other three. They hung on his every word, using his descriptions to concoct a mental picture of the adventure ahead. The paces of the other boys quickened in anticipation.

  Well, the paces of two-thirds of the other boys, anyway.

  One boy did not seem to be sharing in all the enthusiasm. He walked at the back of the group. Head down, almost in prayer, he seemed pulled not by the thrills that lay ahead, but by the collective will of his friends. His steps did start coming faster a few moments later, though not by much, and only so he would not be seen as a straggler.

  “C’mon, Mikey,” the leader urged. “We gotta hurry before all the good spots are taken.”

  “I’m comin’,” Mikey said, defensiveness dripping from his words. “The snow’s not goin’ anywhere.”

  It was typical male nonchalance that masked an underlying dread. Even from the rocking chair, I could tell something was bothering Mikey. Maybe he was cajoled into going by his friends. Maybe he just wasn’t into sledding. Maybe he was a warm-weather guy like me.

  Then again, maybe it was all the stuff he was carrying. While the other boys had equipped themselves with the bare necessities—coats, gloves, sleds—Mikey looked as though he were about to enter combat. Kneepads were tightly secured to his thick ski pants, as were elbow pads over his coat sleeves. A bike helmet was strapped atop his head. And he kept fumbling with something in his right hand. When he stuck it into his mouth, I knew Mikey was wearing a mouthpiece.

  Is this kid going sledding or three rounds with Chuck Liddell? I asked myself, shaking my head.

  Mikey plowed on, walking forward and yet glancing backward, toward what I assumed was his house. He flinched as a crow cawed in the woods across the street and then rocked backward as he looked back down at his feet. I couldn’t believe it. The boy was a walking cliché. Mikey had jumped at his own shadow. Then, perhaps realizing there was safety in numbers, he lumbered on and caught up with his friends.

  A few minutes more produced another group of sledders. Then another. The hill was going to be crowded. Once upon a time I fancied myself quite the sledder. As a kid I never bothered with the hill at the Baptist church, though. It was too far from my house, for one thing. And for another, that hill was purely kid’s stuff.

  Weaver’s Hill was my old stomping grounds, just three houses down and one street up from my boyhood home. Now that was a hill. You needed more than just mere gravity to conquer that behemoth, you needed skill and courage. You needed to know where you were and where you were going. An absence of those things was a death sentence. You just might end up sliding right out into the middle of Wayne Avenue.

  It had been years since I had last grabbed a sled and tackled a hill, Weaver’s or otherwise. The closest I ever got now was dragging the kids around the yard in one. Sara and Josh were still too young to go sledding at the church. I was probably too old to do the same. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t go down there and watch.

  I s
tuck my head in the door to check on the family. Abby was still kneading dough and the kids were still fast asleep. I figured I had a good two hours before I was needed again. I told my wife that I was going for a walk around the neighborhood, just to clear my head of the day’s events. She mentioned an ad in the paper for help at the college in Stanley, and that maybe I should drive up there and put in an application. I said I would think about it while I was gone.

  The sounds of screaming children greeted me as I rounded the back of the church. It was the sort of screaming that was half terror, half joy, and all fun—the kind that only children can seem to vocalize. Twenty or so of them were either zooming down various parts of the hill or trudging back up it. Most were under the watchful eye of Mom or Dad or both, who clustered together at the top and gossiped. It was an almost Rockwellian scene—the snow, the sun, the church, the kids, the laughter. It reminded me of how blessed I was to live in a small town, where such vistas were still common but never taken for granted.

  A high-pitched “Here I go!” caught my attention. Over to my right, a boy had backed up a good ten feet or so from the top of the hill. Sled positioned perfectly at the edge, he took off in a full sprint and leaped onto his sled. He shot off out of sight, leaving nothing but a trail of whoops and displaced snow in his wake. It was the leader of the pack of boys who had first passed my house a while earlier. I could tell why he was the boss, too. The kid was fearless and confident, even at such a young age. He returned to the top a few minutes later, giving and receiving high fives from his admirers. Some of whom were parents.

  It was then that I noticed Mikey. Helmet and kneepads Mikey. Mouthpiece Mikey. He was still managing to be both of the group and apart from it. He whooped it up like the rest of his friends and gave the leader his own high five. But I noticed that even though the rest of the boys were already covered with snow, Mikey was dry. They were cold. He was comfortable.

  “All right, Mikey,” the leader said. “You’re up.”

  “Naw,” he managed. “I gotta wait for the snow to get packed down some more. It’s faster that way.”

  “You’ve been saying that for ten minutes,” another of the boys said. “Get goin’ already. You’re missin’ out.”

  “I’m not missin’ out,” Mikey retorted. “Y’all go a couple more times. I don’t wanna mess around with that soft stuff. It’s boring.”

  The leader put his sled down and walked over to Mikey, away from the other boys. His words echoed my own thoughts. “Mikey. You scared?”

  Whether you are a boy or a man, that is the one question you do not want asked. The male of the human species can be accused of being almost anything—soft or cruel, caring or indifferent, peaceable or hateful—and still manage to retain something of his manhood. But if he is accused of being a coward, there is no hope left for him.

  Mikey bristled. “I’m not scared,” he said.

  “Then go, okay? Sheesh, Mikey, you act like it’s some big deal. It’s just sledding. It’s fun. You’ll see.”

  “All right,” Mikey said. “I’m goin’. But I don’t like it when the snow’s soft.”

  The boy who was afraid of crows and his own shadow, who looked backward to the safety of his home while his friends looked ahead to the fun awaiting them, was out of options.

  But then salvation came from the small crowd of parents.

  “Mikey?” a voice called out.

  One look at the lady sitting among the small group of parents and you knew who her child was. Her chair was one of those portable, expensive ones with the backrest and a cup holder. She held a large bag. Sticking out of the top was an inhaler, a box of Band-Aids, and a package of Ace bandages. She hung the bag on the chair as she called him, and I could hear the shaking of a thousand kinds of pills. Mikey’s mom was ready for anything. She probably had a haz-mat suit in there, too.

  “Yeah, Mom?” called Mikey.

  “Come here, sweetie.”

  “Come here, sweetie,” one of the other boys mocked.

  “Yeah, come here, pootie pie,” said another.

  “Shut up,” Mikey told them both. When you’re a boy, there’s nothing you want more than to be a man. And there’s nothing like your mother calling you to her with a “sweetie” on the end to remind you that you’re not quite there yet.

  I quietly shadowed Mikey as he made his way over.

  “Yeah, Mom?” he asked.

  “Mikey, did you remember to bring your mouthpiece?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mikey said, patting his coat pocket.

  “It won’t do you any good if it’s in your coat pocket.”

  “Mom,” he protested, “I haven’t even gone down yet.”

  “Well, don’t you let your friends talk you into going down that hill if you don’t want to. I don’t know how you managed to talk me into this. It’s dangerous, Michael.”

  “I’ll be okay. I want to go, I really do.”

  “Is your helmet on tight?” his mother asked, tightening it anyway.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Make sure you keep it on. When I got here, it was sitting on your sled.”

  “I wasn’t sledding, Mom,” Mikey said. “What am I gonna do, slip on the snow and crack my head open?”

  It was the wrong thing to say, and Mikey knew it. He looked down and kicked a clump of snow.

  “Young man, don’t you take that tone with me,” she scolded.

  “Sorry, Mom. But none of the other boys have to wear helmets. Even the little kids don’t have them.”

  “Well, they are not my kids,” his mother said, using that age-old argument stopper. “Now you be careful. And watch your asthma. If it acts up, let me know. I have your inhaler in my bag.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Make sure you keep your scarf on. The flu’s going around.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Then, “Mom, you don’t have to be here if you don’t want to. I’ll be okay. You can go home. I know you’re cold, and I can just walk back with the guys.”

  It was a valiant if unfruitful attempt. Mikey was at that age when mothers began to be thought of as necessary evils. Necessary because she was still Mom. But also evil, because even though he needed her, he didn’t necessarily need her around. Especially when he was sledding. With his friends. Who were boys.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, dear. I’m not cold at all.” Her teeth were chattering and her hands were jammed into her pockets and her posture was frozen solid. But she was not cold. “I’m actually quite comfortable,” she said then.

  Mikey tried once more. “You sure you don’t want to go?”

  “I’ll tell you what,” she bargained. “I’ll go if you go.”

  Mikey thought about that. I could tell he was torn. Torn between his mother and his friends, between the hill and his fears.

  “No,” he said. “I want to stay.”

  “Suit yourself then,” she managed, trying not to show her disappointment and not doing a very good job of it. “Go have fun with your friends.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  “And don’t forget your mouthpiece.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mikey rejoined his friends, who began to give him as hard a time about going down the hill as his mother had about staying away from it.

  So he tried to buy himself some more time. He said he wasn’t ready yet. That the snow was still too soft. Go one more time, he said to his friends. It’ll be good and slick then. Then he could fly.

  His friends obliged. After all, they were more concerned with having their own fun than making sure everyone had equal participation. The leader, of course, went first and with his customary flair. The rest followed. By the time they all made the climb back up, Mikey was out of excuses, and he knew it.

  So did his mother.

  “Mikey?” she called.

  “Yeah, Mom?”

  “Come here, please.”


  His mother, I saw, suddenly became much more necessary to Mikey than evil. He didn’t just trudge over to her like the last time, he practically sprinted.

  “Yeah, Mom?” he asked again.

  “Mikey, listen to me. I don’t think you should go down that hill. It’s too dangerous. I know you’re scared, sweetie, and that’s okay. It really is. If you don’t want to go down, you don’t have to. I can take you home right now. I’ll fix you some hot chocolate and we can watch some movies. It’ll be fun. But,” she said, probably to assuage whatever guilt she was feeling, “if you want to play, go ahead.”

  There. Her cards were on the table. I didn’t know what kind of a hand Mikey was holding, but I knew it would be hard for him to beat a royal flush of parental guilt. He looked over his shoulder to his three friends, who waited impatiently for him to take his turn.

  “Mikey,” the leader said, “let’s go, man. We ain’t got all day.”

  So this was it. Mikey had a choice to make. Go home and be safe with Mom, or face his fears head-on and become a man. It was an easy decision.

  “Mom?” he said, turning to her. “I’m cold. Let’s go.”

  “Oh, you poor thing,” his mother smiled. “Come on. I parked in the lot.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Mikey said. “I just have to say bye to the guys.”

  “Sure, honey.” She began to gather her chair and medicine suitcase before her son had time to change his mind.

  Mikey walked back to his friends. He knew that in order for him to extricate himself from the situation with a little dignity, he would have to deliver some Oscar-worthy lies. And boy, did he.

  “I gotta go,” he said.

  “What?” It was the leader. Mikey was smart enough to direct the statement to him. If the other boys still harbored doubts about his story, they would be more likely to follow along if the leader was convinced. “Oh man. You haven’t even gone down yet.”