A Love Letter to Snow Days

There’s something about a snow day that never loses its magic — even long after you’ve traded in your sled for a snow shovel. Growing up in the Northeast, snow was just part of life. The winters meant cold noses, frozen sidewalks, and snowbanks so tall you could dig tunnels through them if you had the right kind of ambition (and mittens thick enough to survive it).

But what made it truly magical wasn’t just the snow itself — it was the suspense.

Back then, in the 1980s, it would take a lot of snow to close school. You couldn't just count on a dusting to win you a free day. You’d wake up early, eyes bleary, and rush to turn on the TV — the old boxy kind where the remote barely worked — just to stare at the tiny flickering banner scrolling across the bottom of the local news.

Waiting...

Watching...

Praying that your school name would crawl by like a tiny, snowy miracle.

The most important news ticker of your childhood — and the only one that really mattered.

And when it did — when you finally spotted it — it was like winning the lottery. Back under the covers you’d go, cocooned in blankets, with the giddy knowledge that the day ahead was a blank slate of sledding, snowmen, and cocoa.

We didn’t text back then — because, of course, we couldn’t. It wasn’t even a thing yet. And even if you wanted to call someone, the phone was most likely stuck downstairs in the kitchen. If you were lucky, you had one of those new cordless models. If not, you had a landline with a really long cord — the kind that came in handy when you were trying to hide around a corner and whisper to your crush (or, in my case, stretch the cord all the way to the basement door, close it behind you, and sit on the first step).

But somehow, none of that mattered. You didn’t need to call. You just pulled on your boots and stepped outside — and half the neighborhood would already be there, building forts or racing sleds down the nearest hill.

There was no appointment, no invitation.

The snow was the invitation.

My very first snow day — bundled up and wide-eyed, before I even knew what a snow day meant.

Snow Days Today: Faster, Louder, and Sometimes Online

Today, the magic has changed a little. Snow days still happen — but they arrive with a vibration in your pocket, a buzz in your email, or a chirp from an app.

Efficient? Sure. But somehow, it doesn’t quite feel the same as sitting on the edge of the couch, squinting at the blurry TV screen, willing the words to appear. These days, your phone will tell you the second school is closed — sometimes before you even open your eyes.

And in some cases now, especially after COVID changed how schools think about remote learning, a snow day might not mean a free day at all. It might just mean flipping open a laptop and logging onto Zoom instead of building a snow fort. What a bummer.

Just out of curiosity, I asked my daughter recently, "What's the best thing about a snow day?"
Without hesitation, she said, "No school."

Some things, it seems, are truly universal — and no amount of technology can take that away.

My daughter, bundled up for her first snow day — not quite old enough yet to know why it was so special, but feeling the magic all the same.

Snowstorms, Nor'easters, and Blizzards — Oh My

Of course, not every snow day is created equal. In the Northeast, we grew up learning the subtle differences between a regular old snowstorm and the real heavy hitters:

P.S. A little note from me to the snow: The February 1983 Blizzard — New Jersey, we were out of school for a week. It was awesome. Thank you so much.

Of course, snow days wouldn't be complete without the snow itself — every single flake a tiny miracle waiting to fall.

Snowflakes: Tiny Wonders in a Big White World

It’s easy to think of snow as one big blanket — but up close, it's made of tiny miracles.

Each snowflake starts high up in the clouds when a tiny particle — like a speck of dust, a grain of pollen, or even a wisp of ash — gets coated in ice. As it tumbles through the air, it picks up more water vapor, growing and forming into the intricate six-sided shapes we recognize. Temperature, humidity, and even the tiniest shifts in the wind all help decide what shape a snowflake will take.

And the best part? No two snowflakes are exactly alike. The odds of two being identical are so slim, it's practically impossible — a little reminder that even in a storm, there’s endless variety and wonder falling all around us.

Next time you catch a snowflake on your mitten, you’re holding a one-of-a-kind work of art — made by winter itself.

And while I loved every flake that fell in my own backyard, I often found myself wondering about Penny and Rose’s farm — and how magical it must have looked, blanketed in winter snow.

The Farm in Winter: A Place I Always Wondered About

As a kid, we never spent much time at the farm in Western Pennsylvania during the winter — at least not that I can remember.

Of course, Penny did.

He had his little Christmas tree project to worry about — always wanting to check on things, making sure everything was just right. But for us, the farm stayed a little bit of a mystery once the snow fell.

We would head to Penny and Rose’s house in Glassport, Pennsylvania, for Christmas (for them, Glassport = school year; farm = summer). It was cozy and bustling — a house full of cousins, stockings, and Rose making sure everyone had enough to eat (and then some). But still, every winter, I used to wonder about the farm — the rolling hills, the valley, the wide-open fields — and how it must have seemed just a little mystical under the snow.

I imagined what it would have been like: the snow deep, untouched, the hills slick and ready, the trees frosted over like a postcard. I’m sure Penny and Rose brought their kids — my mom, Kathie, and her siblings — out there sometimes when they were growing up, maybe even getting a few good sledding runs in... before Penny found another project for them.

The farmhouse and barn, quietly tucked under a blanket of winter snow.

The snow may have blanketed the farm in silence, but inside, Penny’s wheels were always turning.

Even in summer when we were there as kids, Penny was always tinkering, always fixing, always improving something around the farm. And when he needed help, you could hear him calling:

"Boys! Boys! Can I borrow you for a minute?"

It was never just a minute.
Once you were roped into one of Penny’s "minutes," you knew you were going to be gone for a good hour — maybe longer.

Old school as he was, Penny didn’t usually call for the girls (even though honestly, we were probably more qualified for half the jobs he had in mind).

So I can only imagine it now — my uncles hauling spruce trees back up the hill to prepare them for sale in Glassport, my mom and Aunt Rosie maybe sneaking in a little sledding when they had the chance.

Even if the farm in winter was more work than play, it still held that sense of wonder for me — that feeling that just beyond the next snowy hill, there was magic waiting.

Penny on the snowy hill, with the farmhouse and barn behind him — always ready with a project, and maybe even a little winter magic.

The Magic That Stays

Snow days have changed, like everything else.

But the heart of them — the sparkle in the air, the giddy rush to throw on boots and gloves, the way the world slows down just for a little while — that part stays.

Whether you grew up checking the TV or checking your phone, there’s still something about waking up to a world made entirely new overnight.

A world built for snowmen, forts, and footprints.

A world where, just for one day, you don’t have to be anywhere but here.

Have a snow day memory you still think about? We’d love to hear it. Share your favorite snow day story—or just a little love letter to winter—in the comments!

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