You had to be there

I got a call early this morning not to come to work as the facility has been closed because of carbon monoxide levels.  Horrible.  Wish I knew more and could somehow help.  I don't like not working when I'm supposed to be there.  Made me think of snow days.  This is not a snow day because I feel guilty somehow.  Snow days are guilt free days.  That's the law.

At least it's the law where I grew up on the northern plains.  It could snow several feet and be 20 below and we still had to go to school.  And, yes, I walked to school in the snow.  So when it was ever announced that there would be NO SCHOOL, it was like winning the lottery.  First disbelieve, then double check the numbers.  NO SCHOOL.  We win!!! 

The test of a true snow day meant you couldn't open your front door against the weight of a 10-foot snow drift.  A northern snow day meant no ordinary vehicle could move through packed snow, even with chains strapped to the tires. 

One of the all-time record snow falls occurred when I was about 11 years old and living in Aberdeen, S.D.  It happened just after Thanksgiving because my grandmother Eskelson and both grandmother and grandfather Lochridge were stuck in our home for several days.  My mom could probably recall some good stories about this one, but she might also have wiped that memory for her own mental survival.

My mom was all too happy for us kids (6 of us) to "play" outside once the wind stopped howling.  I can't come up with the right words to describe what this snowfall had done to the once-flat landscape.  Reshaped it, for sure. There were hills and valleys and even mountains now, just outside our backdoor.  Let the exploration begin.

We headed out the backdoor. The top layer of the newly fallen snow had hardened, allowing us to walk atop the endless white field before us.  Our steps crunched as we gingerly put one foot in front of the other, understanding a misstep could result in a leg being swallowed by the hungry snowdrift.  Even when our step broke through, we knew just how to shift our balance and retrieve the appendage.  Onward, slowly but surely.

I recall my brother John and me and some other neighborhood kids were plowing slowly across this snowfield.  In the distance, we saw the ballpark's lonely green scoreboard rising above the white field. Raising its head, an invitation to play.  In that instant, it became our destination.

We knew it well - the ballpark that was home to the Aberdeen Pheasants, a baseball farm team of the Baltimore Orioles.  We had spent hours playing in the scoreboard after season.  It was like a clubhouse.  Access was a cinch, easy climb up the fence to a platform that led into a room behind the big scoreboard.  The door was never locked.  It practically belonged to us off season. And what was more off season than the aftermath of one of the state's worst blizzards?

Climbing up to the platform after record snowfall was not easy.  The snow gave under our feet.  We were not dissuaded, could not be dissuaded. We bravely scaled Mt. Scoreboard and claimed the entire ballpark as our own that day.  From our view atop the mountain, we took in our beloved baseball field covered in snow.  It was a gigantic bowl of snow with the green tips of the fence holding it together, preventing the snow from spilling over.  Another invitation seemed to call. 

What I remember, without words, we all began jumping - from our position on the fence or scoreboard platform - into the white snow.  Then we climbed back up and jumped again into what used to be centerfield.  Time was suspended that day.  We existed in a different world.  And we were in command of this new wonderland.  Until our wet feet and hands took over.  We surrendered eventually to the pain and exhaustion and headed back to the real world.  

I often think of that day and occasionally try to share it with others, but it doesn't translate well in conversation. It's one of those experiences you truly had to be there.  I'm so glad I was.