It never ceases to amaze me how much human behavior is altered when there is a little snow in the forecast. Some latent - yet bizarre - element of survival instinct is triggered when (ohmygosh!) the lastest storm of the century is bearing down on us.
Hours before the first flakes appeared, we were at the local Piggly Wiggly doing the regular weekly grocery run. The joint was packed cart-to-cart with shoppers. A number of the folks in there were overheard talking with friends and neighbors about 'stocking up'.
In the spice aisle, a woman breathlessly explained to another shopper that they were loading up on the essentials, because "the TV" said this was going to be a big one. A blizzard!!! She was holding a tiny cannister of nutmeg. Just the essentials, folks.
I've been a resident of this fine state for damn near (gulp) four decades now. Not once do I remember a winter storm so severe that it shut people indoors for days on end, much less forcing them to rely on the provisions that they'd hoarded for just such an occassion.
Perhaps snowstorms give adults the freedom to let their imaginations run a little bit, harkening back to their childhood days when the promise of a big snowstorm offered hope that school would be canceled.
But in the end, as with this past weekend, it was all usually a disappointing illusion fueled by our imaginations and ratings-hungry meteorologists. The evil forces that ran the schools usually found a way to keep the buses running and the doors of their fine institutions open - even if it was the dreaded 'late start.' It always coincided with the start time for 'The Price is Right.' Dang it.
To make things worse, when the snow was really deep, my mom would have us wear old bread bags inside our boots to keep our feet dry as we trudged downtrodden to the flippin' bus stop.
Once at school, though, we made the most of it. The boys played on giant mountains of snow at recess. King of the Hill was pretty straightforward. One kid would get on top of the pile of snow, and the rest of the kids would claw at him from all directions in an attempt to knock him down the hill.
It was a melee of flailing arms and legs. Bloody noses were the norm. The kid who got credit for pulling the king down became the new king. Thusly, he was pummeled. Boys. The need to win override the basic human instinct not to get the crap beat out of us.
Snowpants weren't all that common at my school. And we were all too cool to wear a snowmobile suit. I can tell you from personal experience that snow packs nicely into the grooves of JC Penney Supercords. They hold moisture well, too. It was always better to wear a pair of Sears Toughskins. My size was 'husky.' That made me proud until I got a little better grasp of what that meant.
We didn't really wear boots, either, until moonboots came into vogue. Kids weren't really judged by the brand of shoe they wore back in the day. Nike? Never heard of it. No, the ultimate badge of coolness on our shoes had to do with how much traction they had.
You could have a $5 pair of dandies from Value Village, but if they traction, they trumped a $7 pair from Kmart. And a stocking cap was super cool if it had a farm-related patch on it. Mine said Kent Seeds. I was the coolest.
I have to remember that kids don't really care what they wear. Well, until they get a little older. My daughter and I built a snowman on Saturday, and it got knocked over by the winds when the storm hit.
On Sunday, we put on our showshoes and repaired him. Sorta. His torso is a series of broken snow boulders, and his head is a tiny snowball perched on top. Looks like a real Picasso. In other words, he's one hot mess.
Her snowshoes are big plastic monster feet. She thinks they're the coolest. I took some pictures that I'm sure will embarrass her someday.
At least I didn't get the urge to slip her feet into bread bags. Maybe I'm depriving her of a classic Wisconsin childhood memory. I suppose that means that she'll have to blog about some other silly thing I did when she gets older.
