We live in a rural county, one known for its hills and ravines, its hairpin turns and hidden culverts, its covered bridges taken at a walk, its narrow gravel roads still named by family rather than number.

Not so long ago, wintertime nearly always gave us a day or two when we needed to shut down a while just to let the snowplows open the roads; it was, to us anyway, a pleasant diversion from the usual. Schools were closed, soup heated on the stove, the mail went undelivered, and our sleds came off garage walls. 

I long for no blizzard, no downed power lines, no slide-offs into the ditches, but I do wish we could feel the same way for winter that we used to. Of course, now our children and grandchildren must atone for “snow days,” often in the form of “e-learning,” but I think that ushering them out the door leads to more education than having them sit with a glowing screen as a companion. Now that I think of it, from personal experience in the art of sledding, snow days taught me quite a bit about the physical sciences of weight distribution, friction, and speed. There was time to read, of course, and I loved that as my play clothes dried over a warm furnace register.

Now, as four-wheel drive becomes more commonplace, most of us can get to where we want to go. The sight of unbroken snow on a road is rare. The sound of revving engines replacing the muffled silence of a day when it used to be so quiet you could hear the lightest wisps of snowflakes on a coated shoulder.

I still look forward to a day with snow. Retired, with fewer places I have to be, I enjoy my cup of coffee by a cabin window. Even a little shoveling doesn’t spoil the magic. I walk through my woods to the creak of bending trees, the light whistles of the wind, and the lonely caws of crows, the latter bringing back memories of the poet Robert Frost and his line about the “dust of snow.” I catch sight of my breath in the crisp air, hear the crunch of my boots in the yet unbroken snow crust, feel the bite of the raw breeze as it reddens my now-wrinkled face. 

Years ago, minus the wrinkles, at a time when even flannel shirts, mismatched cotton gloves, scratchy wool long johns, and bread wrapper-covered feet could only go so far to keep me dry and warm, I think I already knew that snow days were a treasure. 

Mike Lunsford is a freelance columnist, feature writer, and photographer based in Parke County. Contact Lunsford at hickory913@gmail.com.