“2-3 inches is the perfect amount,” I thought as I buttoned up my warm hot pink kitty-cat
PJs and put on my Tinker-Bell socks. James Spann said it was supposed to snow tomorrow. 2-3
inches. That’s the most we have had in Alabama in years. I unmade my bed and curled up under
the ladybug comforter. I call it my comfortable. I’m not wrong. It is pretty cozy. I could smell
the smoke that had escaped from the fireplace still lingering in the air. The last embers would be
dead by now: a sure signifier that everyone would be in bed.

​

     I couldn’t sleep. I thought of the things I would do when I awoke. My mom would make
waffles. She always makes waffles when it snows. My parents would let me have coffee with a
lot of milk and sugar. I would get up and smell it. The smell would lead me out of the bed and
down the stairs to the kitchen table. I thought about the games I would play with my sister when
we went outside to enjoy the powder. We would build a snowman. My dad would slaughter us in
a snowball fight.

​

     I slowly drifted off to sleep. Dreams of what the next day had in store would invade my
mind. Maybe mom would make ice cream out of snow. Maybe dad would let us use one of his
hats on our snowman. Maybe my snow angel would be taller than it was the last time I was given
the chance to make one. I wanted to make the most of what little time I would have with the snow. After all, it doesn’t snow often in Alabama.

​

     My eyes open slowly. Disoriented, I lay there, still, trying to remember what was
supposed to happen today. I remember. I spring from my bed like a jack from its box. My body
aligns with the window. It’s there. It came. I knew it would. The branches were dusted, and dead
trees came alive in the newly formed winter wonderland. The fence caught the snow on its wiry

nets. The ground was no longer inhabited by grass, but by powdered sugar. Powdered sugar.
Sugar. Coffee. The smell trespassed into my room and took my nose hostage. Under the
influence of the aroma, I took the stairs and traveled to the kitchen. It was all there and then
some. The waffles and coffee were joined by scrambled eggs, orange slices, bacon, sausage, and
cheese grits. I imagine it was comparable to the Christmas feast that Joe, Amy, Meg, and Beth
had. I only hoped we wouldn’t have to give our meal to our neighbors.

​

     The meal, however large it was, was devoured within a matter of seconds. No time that
could be spent outside in the snow should be wasted. My mom made me bundle up: Long Johns
under my normal clothes; two pairs of socks; a jacket; tennis shoes; a scarf; something that
would cover my ears. I was finally prepared to step out into a new world.

​

     2-3 inches was right. I looked down at my footprint. We had exactly 2 1⁄2 inches. The
bowl we left on the sidewalk was about 1⁄3 of the way filled. That would make enough ice cream
for everyone. The first order of business was observation. We had to take it all in. The ground
was covered. Not an inch of grass was showing. Trees swayed in the wind, loosening the
blankets of white that caressed them. All around, the yard felt different. 

​

     Second-order of business was a snowball fight. I looked around for a target. My sister
stood twenty feet away. I squatted down and shoveled a handful of the stuff. I compacted it
tightly enough to hold together, but soft enough that it wouldn’t hurt. I took a few steps closer.
The ice infected snow crunched. Before she could turn around, I swung. I hit her right in the
chest. Her armor of layered clothes caught the intensity and subdued it. Down she went to the
ground to create her own weapon. I ran. I ran faster than my sister, making it easier for me to buy
some time. I came to a spot where she was not in sight and began to create an arsenal of
snowballs. My sister popped up in my peripheral vision. Before I had a chance to prepare, she

had thrown the snowball right at my face. This coldness was sharp and bitter. I didn’t mind. If I
had gone to my parents and complained about pain or unfairness, I wouldn’t be able to aim at my sister’s face. After all, revenge is best served cold.

​

     I soon forgot about revenge. The snowman building had commenced. We rolled a ball
around the yard. Now you could see grass in the path of the snowman. Another medium-sized
ball was made. Then, there was a small one. I gathered gravel for the buttons. Someone went
inside to get a carrot from the refrigerator. My dad brought out a baseball hat. My sister and I
were charged with finding sticks to be his arms. By the time we found some, my mom was there
with a scarf and was wrapping it between the medium and small balls. Blueberries made the eyes
and mouth. He was finished. We named him Edmund after the youngest Pevensie boy.

​

     Snow angels were next on the to-do list. I can’t say snow angels are my favorite snow
day activity. They are best to do last so that you aren’t trudging around in 25-degree weather
wearing wet garments. I lay on my back. My arms in legs made the shape of a jumping jack. I
forgot to put my hood over my head, so my hair was now wet. I arose from the piece of art I had
created. My snow angel was indeed taller this year.

 

     At this point, I was freezing. My outer layer of clothing was soaked through. I made my
way up the front porch steps. I kicked the excess snow off my shoes and opened the door. A waft
of heat hit my face. I stepped inside. I went upstairs and started running a warm bath. The water
burned my skin as it tried to adjust to the sudden temperature change. I lay there for several
minutes to relax. I had spent close to two hours outside, which meant it was time to start school. I
was homeschooled. That meant snow days were not a break away from studying. I would work
on school for the rest of the day. “If I work quickly enough,” I thought, “I might be able to enjoy
the snow in the evening before bed.”