This past weekend we got our first big snow. Really big. Two feet. We mobbed the stores for dairy products and I killed a man for the last carton of eggs. I bought a 24 pack of bottled water in case the town’s communal well froze over. It is after all 1966. Actually, I don’t know why I bought the water.
We were ready to be snowed in. We had pizza, macaroni, grilled cheese, peanut butter, pancakes, beer and rum. There are no vegetables on snow days. The girlfriend accused me eating baby carrots, but it’s LIES, ALL LIES.
In the morning we woke up and peeked out the window. It was real and coming down. The weatherman did not lie to us like he did that one December in 1989. Me and my sister had even worn our pajamas backwards and danced in the backyard that night. There wasn’t a single flake, despite the predictions of the SNOWPACALYPSE.
Well this time, the snowpacalypse was quite possibly for real. This was the stuff you needed boots for. I leaped out of bed and announced that I was going to build a snowman. In fact, a snowman family. As the day wore on and the snow bore down, my dreams got bigger and included extended snow relatives. But when I actually ventured outside, all family members were swiftly shot down when the snow turned out not to be wet enough. They say Alaskans got 30535 words for snow, but I got one. Crap.
With nothing else to do, we ate our cheese and pancakes at regularly scheduled intervals.
It was six days before Christmas. I was done shopping. (Sure, nothing is wrapped, but these are trivial matters.) I had the crapfest of a plastic tree up. I had the Christmas station presetted on the radio. I had a few gifts for myself bought on the credit of impending Christmas money. And I had a Ninja Turtle in the nativity scene. But something was missing. I wanted egg nog.
I looked outside. There was a foot of the white stuff on the ground and there was no way I’d make to the grocery store. It was everywhere.
Snow days are about quests, and I had a quest inside of me. I wanted egg nog–randomly, spontaneously, and ridiculously, I yearned for a concoction of eggs, milk, and rum. If I were a cartoon, I’d tie tennis rackets around my boots, and tie a little barrel of hot chocolate around a St. Bernard’s neck.
No, I couldn’t make it to the grocery store in this weather, but there was a gas station within walking distance–and maybe–just maybe, they’d have one of those single serving To Go bottles of egg nog.
Now these things freak me out. Who would drink a To Go bottle of egg nog anyway–besides me? And would the Sunoco actually stock this? I rallied together the troops–er–the other folks I was snowed in with, my girlfriend and her roommates. I proposed the Snow Day Quest.
Come on now, my companions at arms, and fellow soldiers, in the field. We have a job to do and we must do it. All day and all night it has snowed all over these son-of-a-bitching roads, but we will never stop, never falter from our course, with snow falling all around us all of the time. We’ll get through on good old American guts. We will reach the Sunoco and find the single serving egg nog. If God is with us, who can be against us?
The girlfriend groaned and said that she was already nice and warm on the couch. Roommate Rob was up for it and soon we were suiting up in our boots and machine guns and hats and gloves. Before we walked out the door, the girlfriend started feeling left out and decided to suit up too.
After 6.5 hours, we reached the holy land:
It was actually only like 6.5 minutes. I probably did not need the three pairs of long underwear I had on. Or the machine gun.
We waddled in. I skiied over the melted snow sludge to eyeball the single serving milk section. There was whole milk, 2%, chocolate….
HOLIDAY EDITION. RUTTER’S EGG NOG. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.
(And if I was HTML-savvy enough to make that blink and scroll across the screen, I would.)
THE CHRISTMAS MIRACLE. It was the not the first or last miracle I would declare this season, or even that day. Later when A&E had a new episode of Hoarders onDemand, I went ahead and declared that the Christmas Miracle as well.
As with the end to all great snow days, there is a snow party.
This is my innovation–snow-chilled beer.
Towards the end, I got a little out of hand photographing everything with the candy cane. I have about 23 more pictures of that candy cane. It was like the candy cane took on a life of her own. She called herself Lil but everyone knew her as Nancy. She even got a little sassy in some of the pictures. Then again, cabin fever was starting to kick in…
…or the egg nog.