A snow day carries a certain magic that refuses to fade with age.
The calendar may now say “workday” instead of “school day,” and responsibility may tug loudly. Emails may continue to blow up one’s devices, yet a fresh blanket of snow still has the power to slow the world and soften even the hardest edges. Snow days invite everyone, no matter their age, to pause and look out the window a little longer than usual. Snow days remind us that joy does not have an expiration date.
I remember snow days when we lived in Cleveland. We got a lot more snow, thanks to the lake effect, but I was young. When we moved here, and initially growing up in Clearview, a snow day was never just a day off. We seemed to get so much more snow than down off the hill.
Snow days were an event. Anticipation started the night before with hushed hopes and whispers while watching flakes drift past the streetlight. Morning brought the rush to the television or radio, waiting for the school closing announcement. Was it Snowbird back then?
Celebration followed immediately after hearing or seeing “Ohio County – cancelled”. Pajamas stayed on longer, breakfast tasted better, and the entire neighborhood seemed to belong to us. All the kids in the neighborhood seemed to be called outside. Together.
Our development had the perfect hills for sledding, at least in our minds. Those hills, that we trekked dutifully to the bus stop, which looked much better and more inviting after a snowfall. During the walk back up from the perfect run, no one ever complained.
Age didn’t matter. Along with Heather, Dawn, my brothers, and all the neighborhood kids, we would layer up in whatever snow gear we could find, bread bags on our feet under our boots. Sleds ranged from actual sleds to plastic discs and whatever our imaginations dreamed up to try. Ingenuity mattered more than equipment. Laughter mattered more than speed.
Those sledding days were full of fearless confidence. We flew down hills convinced nothing bad could happen because childhood had not yet taught us caution. Crashes ended in snow-covered hair and breathless laughter. Someone always lost a mitten. Someone always insisted on just one more run. Time felt endless. Cold cheeks and wet boots never sent us inside early.
Our little neighborhood felt like the center of the universe on those days.
Snow days were not only about sledding. Snow days meant community. Neighbors would walk out onto their stoops. Kids, hoping to make a few bucks, would grab shovels and seek customers. Parents checked in from windows, pretending not to worry while smiling at the joy unfolding outside. Friends knocked on doors without texting first. Everyone shared the same schedule, or lack of one. The snow leveled things. Everyone was simply present.
Adulthood has a way of convincing us that snow days are inconveniences. Meetings must be rescheduled. Roads must be cleared. Plans must be adjusted. The same snow that once sent us running for sleds now sends us checking forecasts and worrying about logistics. Something precious gets lost when snow becomes only a problem to solve.
Yet snow still offers the same invitation it always has. Snow asks us to slow down. Snow quiets the world in a way few things can. Snow softens sound and sharpens awareness. Snow encourages us to look up from screens and out into something beautiful. Snow reminds us that not everything needs to be optimized or rushed.
Enjoying a snow day as an adult may look different than it did when I was a kid. Sledding hills may be fewer. Knees may protest. Schedules may loom. Joy, however, remains available. Enjoyment can be found in a hot cup of coffee by the window. Enjoyment can be found in a walk through the fresh snow before the plows arrive. Enjoyment can be found in watching children discover what once felt so familiar.
Enjoyment can be found in remembering who we were when snow meant freedom.
We currently have young neighbors with children across the street from our house. This family is outside a lot. Kudos to the parents (and the kids) for just being kids. It is so much fun to hear their laughter and watch them enjoy the snow. We commented about how great it is to see kids playing in the neighborhood while decorating our tree on Sunday.
However, I have not seen a snowman … yet.
Snow days offer a rare permission to be gentle with ourselves. Productivity can wait. Emails can wait. The world will keep spinning even if we pause. Snow teaches patience and presence in equal measure. Snow reminds us that some of the best moments are unplanned and unscheduled.
My memory of sledding days lives on, not because of the hills or the sleds, but because of the feeling. That feeling remains accessible. It waits quietly for the next snowfall. No matter your age, a snow day still belongs to you. All that is required is the willingness to step outside, or at least to look out the window, and remember how to enjoy it.
