Snow day

[sd gross]

(A Winter's Tale):snowman1:
stephen d gross

SNOW DAY
by Stephen D. Gross

The New York City blizzard of '47 was, at that point in my life, the most dazzling and wonderful thing that ever happened to me. What inconvenience? What did I care about getting to work, rescuing people in trouble, untenable conditions, shopping, no public services ? I was concerned about getting my boots on before it melted, I was only 5 yrs old, and I needed help with the laces. I cared about rolling around in the drifts before they shrunk - in making snow angels and tunnels before it turned to slush. I lived in a weary, grizzled six storey that housed 70 families and had a row of shops at ground level. My two favorites were Weller's Candy Store and Mr. Schneider's Clock Shop.
Mr. Weller, a barely ambulatory immigrant from Eastern Europe was shell-shocked from the War, had "the shakes", and jumped at the slightest noise. The neighborhood kids had little sympathy for Joe Ziggity Bop, which is what the meanest boys called him, but my little heart went out to him. Weller's is where I would shell out three cents for my dad's Daily News, pick up Mom's quarter-a-pack Camels, and get my Egg Creams. After I found out Yoo-Hoo was Yogi Berra's favorite drink, I abandoned the Egg Creams.
Mr. Schneider's clock shop was filled, almost exclusively with Cuckoo clocks. Meticulous, and fastidious by nature, he kept all of his clocks running perfectly and set to the exact same time. We all knew when the hour drew close, and we'd find an excuse to congregate within hearing of the avian chorus. The little train chugged, the Bavarian maiden kicked the milk can, beer drinkers toasted each other, woodman swung their axes and the birds all warbled. All at the same time. He knew we loved the synchronized serenade and he always delighted in our stopping by.
The morning of December 26th I awoke to a world of white. The garbage trucks, the 10th avenue El, the hundreds of cars in the train yard, sooty beyond the limits of hygiene, all wore a sparkly sequined robe of pearls. Late afternoon saw giant dozers lumbering up and down the wide avenue clearing the streetcar tracks. By the next day upper Broadway was bordered by enormous drifts, some as high as tour building's second storey.
Like arctic explorers we burrowed into the virgin snow creating a labyrinth of tunnels which went nowhere and all looked exactly the same. In fact we had no idea how far we'd have to dig to find the endless glacier's limits. I'm sure if our folks considered the possibility of tunnels collapsing, they would have yanked us out and up to our apartments, but this wonderland looked so angelic and celestial, so pure and God-driven, no one gave it a thought. We couldn't wait to get outside and we all arose earlier than our folks could appreciate, but after dumping 26 inches on the city, it had stopped snowing and we couldn't wait. Our world as we knew it had changed, and we couldn't wait to get to know this new one. We dug and burrowed like badgers on methedrine, tirelessly, melting the snow with our burning enthusiasm.
It was inevitable that we became disoriented and lost our sense of direction. We'd been tunneling for hours, and the hoary shafts all looked the same. Despite our lust for life, we became tired, remembered our bellies. We were little kids and needed regular refueling. Suddenly, we wanted out. We started digging through a side wall, hoping we'd be able to break out but the crystalline silence gave us no clue. We tried another one, and then Louis Firestone began to cry, and Ronnie Ganz made whimpering noises that made me very uncomfortable. He was older than I was and outweighed me by about 30 lbs, and here he was, whimpering. This went on for awhile, but just as we reached the edge of desperation, another sound drifted into the tunnel. I couldn't tell what it was, but I surmised that it was probably coming from outside our tomb, so I started digging in the direction from which I thought it came. Louis' sobbing almost drowned out the errant sound and I yelled at him to shut up, and he cried louder and began to help me dig. Very suddenly the snowbank we were working on collapsed and we were hit by a wall of incredible piping, squawking, and strident birdsong - bells jingling, trains chugging, and melodic chiming - we'd emerged from our snowfield right in front of Mr. Schneider's clock shop!
The sun had struggled to rise like a dirty egg yolk over the Harlem River and Mr. Schneider had braved the snowy peaks of Broadway and their attendant ocean of slush to come down and accomplish his mission. He'd wound and set every clock he owned, opened the front door to bathe his sonorous, gingerbread shop in late afternoon sunlight, and created a beacon with which he unknowingly lead us to safety. He even had hot chocolate waiting on the tiny stove in the shop's rear. To this day, it's impossible for me to hear the cuckoos calling without dreaming of a wintry white world being sucked into a Black Hole of steaming hot chocolate.