My home and the residents beneath its roof appear to have survived another Polar
Vortex, but not without a hefty price, most of which will be paid in spring once
repairmen are able to navigate my driveway without slipping on ice.
The damage included:
- Ice cold condensation from a bathroom exhaust fan, dripping directly onto the head
of whoever was sitting beneath it. I discovered this malfunction at approximately 3:22
a.m.
- A furnace that survived, but during the 15th hour of subzero temperatures began
emitting a high-pitched whine similar to a pack of coyotes feasting on a rabbit carcass.
That evening, my family’s pre-dinner prayer included the phrase, “repair guy,” as in,
“Heavenly Father, please bless this food and please don’t make us have to call the repair
guy.”
- Two consecutive school snow days, which, if one asked exasperated parents and
students in my neighborhood, should have been three. Instead, the buses in my high
school daughter’s district rolled on the day before the mercury plummeted to levels not
seen since the second hour of The Revenant with Leonardo DiCaprio.
It was left to me to break it to my slumbering daughter that, yes, school would be
taking place the day before the Polar Vortex was set to blanket Illinois with snow, ice and
“frost quakes,” a term school officials were obviously unfamiliar with, for nobody in
their right mind would order schools to remain open while ice was cracking underground.
“OK, class, please open your books to…”
BOOM!
“…chapter eight.”
As my daughter grumbled her way through breakfast, I recounted my days of waiting,
anxiously, for word of school closings, albeit with one big difference:
By the time I heard the announcement that school was closed, I was already up and
dressed. For school.
Not once, I told my daughter, was school EVER closed in anticipation of an impending
weather system. Instead, school officials opted for the “Let’s see if it really happens”
approach. There was also no internet, text message alerts or robocall phone notification
systems in place; the sole providers of school closing information were local television
newscasters. Therefore, one had to assume school would take place until one heard
otherwise from a stern-faced anchorman who relished the agony he inflicted on students
waiting to hear their district called.
“Coming up, school closings. But first, let’s see what happened last night in the world
of sports!”
Believe me, it was far worse than The Bachelorette contestants waiting to hear their
names called during the weekly rose ceremony.
This ritual’s worst part, I told my still unresponsive daughter, was that my district
always seemed to be buried at the end of this list. Other schools were mentioned twice,
even three times as the minutes before my school’s opening bell ticked ever so close. I
began to feel anger toward all those students whose schools had already been mentioned.
Catholic schools in particular received top billing.
“How come Blessed Virgin Mary Mother of God Church and Academy with an
Immaculate Heart is closed today but not us?” I whined to my own mother.
“That’s not a school,” she replied.
“Is too. He just said it. Twice.”
By the time my school’s name was announced, I was too amped up on Cap’n Crunch to
consider returning to bed. Plus, my books and school supplies were always close by,
leading to a brilliant, in her opinion, idea from my mother.
“Why don’t you get a jump on upcoming classwork?” she would suggest.
“Uh, Mom, it’s a SNOW day,” I would reply, before diving into another bowl of cereal.
Yes, what constitutes a snow day, and the decision-making process preceding it, has
indeed changed over the years. But for those in my generation who feel districts are
trigger-happy when choosing to cancel classes, and kids have grown “soft,” a term used
by Kentucky Governor Matt Bevin after many districts in his state did precisely that,
remember one simple fact:
Online homework did not exist.
