Come on 311!

I was waiting for a substantial snow fall before posting this week's question. I thought it might be atmospheric to think about snow while it softly drifted outside your frosty window. But it has barely snowed this winter, just a bizarre October storm. I get nervous thinking about the weather and the environment and shrinking glaciers and trapped polar bears. But then I get more nervous about the 40 eggs I need to scramble and dye green for Lu's class in honor of Dr. Seuss' birthday and I forget all about global warming.


What memories do you have of winter weather?


I remember what most kids growing up in the Mid-Atlantic region remember. Waiting to hear if your school was closed, then sledding, crafting a fort, or committing to the tedious task of building a snowman. (A lot of effort for little reward.) Our school number was 311. On a snowy morning, we would anxiously gather by the radio and listen to the exhausted announcer read the school codes. One by one. Come on 311! Was there no easier way? And was it that much harder to simply read the name of the school district? Why a code? It's a mystery how we communicated anything back in the day. I guess we relied heavily on the classic phone chain. But few households had answering machines, so often the chain would fail miserably and families with names late in the alphabet were never in the know.


If there was enough snow to sled, we typically went to a church only a block away. It was a pretty lame hill, but it had two parts – a quick, steep start and then a long smooth finish. If you had an exceptionally good run, you would coast along the parking lot before coming to a satisfying stop. My family had two kinds of sleds. We favored the classic wooden variety that was best ridden lying on your stomach and featured a steering element and sharp blades that would sever whatever you ran into or over. The back-up sled was a simple metal disk that was basically a glorified trashcan lid. But if it was the right ratio of slightly crusty, icy snow, you could really fly and spin and totally wipe out in a huge painful heap, laughing hysterically the whole time until you realize you got snow in your boots and then it was time to head home.


In March of 1993, I was in the Bahamas for spring break with a group of college friends. We had virtually no spending money so brilliant me packed peanut butter, saltines and cinnamon pop tarts to last throughout the week. This seemed like a fantastic idea, but by day three, I was ready to climb a palm tree for a leafy snack. By day seven, I was desperate to get home and eat something, anything fresh and not foil wrapped. Despite no Internet, cell phones, or even a Bahamian phone chain, we were informed of a humongous nor'easter dumping several feet of snow on Pennsylvania and quickly proceeded to panic like only a bunch of girls with little travel experience and a dwindling supply of pop tarts can. Our flight to Tampa was not cancelled – yippee! – but our flight to Philadelphia was – bummer. We were stuck in the Tampa airport with no money (and possible signs of scurvy) for a very long time. I've mentally blocked it. It may have been 24 hours, it may have been eight days. I honestly can't remember.


In 1996, another big storm caused drama. I was now out of college and writing for an ad agency in Baltimore. I left a creative, fun, cutting edge firm in Bethesda to compose crappy copy for furniture dealers. There's only so many ways you can wedge "deep discounts" and "no payments for 10 years" into a thirty second TV spot. Ultimately you give up trying to do it with panache and you just do it. The real draw to the job was the opportunity to be a producer. I would write my craptastic copy, choose a voice talent, schedule studio time, then sit in front of the giant sound editing console (which is probably micro-small and digital now) and direct 65 year-old seasoned announcers on how to read my craptastic scripts. They must have hated me, so young and self-conscious, clutching my monogrammed Day-Timer with zippo life experience. Thank God for the super nice sound engineer who kept them happily chatting about the glory days of Baltimore broadcasting while giving me a kind wink. I just Googled him. Louis Mills. He died last year. Very sad.


Back on topic... a monstrous storm paralyzed the city in early January. The ad world can wait, right? No! I was expected to tunnel to the studio and cut a series of ads promoting the "Blizzard of '96" sale. Because that's when people really want to buy curio cabinets! And not pay for 10 years! It was so gimmicky and stupid. Driving in my craptastic (word of the day) Volkswagen Fox (remember those? of course you don't!), I spun out several times and hit an embankment or three. It was life-changing. I realized this sort of gig was not for me. Fortunately, the two owners broke up the company less than a year later and I started freelancing, meaning I became my own boss. And me as a boss would never expect me as an employee to drive anywhere in a blizzard!


At this stage in my life, I would describe snow as a mere nuisance. Shoveling walkways, digging out cars. A day home from school means lots of dressing kids up to venture outside for 15 minute intervals and then peeling off layers of cold, wet clothes. Then making "high maintenance" hot cocoa. One daughter likes it with Hershey's syrup and one likes it with Nesquick powder. Annoying. Bea will probably demand Himalayan dark chocolate coarsely grated. I swear they enjoy watching me work. So maybe it's not such a terrible thing that it hasn't snowed much this winter. For me, that is, not the stranded polar bears.


And for your viewing pleasure, 40 green scrambled eggs. Happy Birthday, Dr. Seuss!