28 Flakes Later

Growing up in Iowa, winter storms were an accepted part of life. Not something we particularly enjoyed—just something we took in stride.

When we were kids, the first storm or two of the season was always fun. This was our chance to build a snowman, construct elaborate snow forts, and engage in pitched snowball fights. On occasion, even Mom would don a snowsuit and make snow angels in the front yard with my sister and me.

And those snowsuits? Oh, those were the best!

They were so soft and fluffy, they afforded more than just protection from the cold. I once discovered—quite by accident, I assure you—that I could lie on top of the evergreen shrubs in front of the house and not feel a thing!

I’d clamber up onto my father’s long-suffering sempervirens and spend hours trying to catch snowflakes on my tongue—until he caught me one day and hollered out: “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get off those bushes before you squash ‘em flatter than a mule turd!”

Ahh, yes. The old man always had a way with words.

As the winter wore on, we’d eventually tire of the endless parade of snowstorms—coming to see our Iowa home as a winter hellscape. By February, we’d begun dreaming about the first balmy spring days to come in late April, when we could venture outdoors without dressing up like extras in Nanook of the North.

One winter activity we never tired of, though, was the legendary “snow day.” We didn’t get many of these—Iowa is a pretty flat landscape with a snowplow on practically every corner. Most families living in the countryside owned an attachment like this for their pickup truck or farm tractor. Some of the more well-off actually owned gas-powered snowblowers, the lucky bastards.

In order to get a snow day, the unwritten rule was—as far as I understood it—if the previous night’s snowfall was less than 6 inches, you might as well get out of bed and get ready for school. I can remember more than one morning sneaking out onto the back porch with a 12-inch plastic ruler and dipping it in the snow—fervently hoping the previous night’s storm had deposited the magical amount.

We never could tell for sure, though. The school superintendent, Jack Hoenshel, was the one who would make the final call. There was a good reason we kids always called him “Alaska Jack.”

Party pooper.

* * *

When I moved to East Tennessee back in 2000 to start my medical career, I was unaccustomed to the concept of snow days as practiced by the locals. It was… different from Iowa, shall we say?

Now, in Tennessee’s defense, they do have considerably more mountains, hills, and winding roads that, if snow- or ice-covered, are a great deal more treacherous than flat, squarely laid out, Iowa farm roads. So, it does make sense they would have to exercise a greater degree of caution than we did back home.

In 2016, my parents retired, sold the farm in Exline, and moved to Johnson City to live close to Sean and me. I hadn’t thought to mention the Tennessee concept of a snow day to them—they’d moved here in July of that year. The following January, we had one morning that saw a couple of inches of the white stuff falling.

That evening, I happened to stop by to visit them. I cracked up at my stepdad’s puzzled tone of voice when he said he’d gone out that morning to run some errands and, in his words, “The bank was closed, the mall was closed, the hardware store was closed—what in the world was going on?”

“Oh that? Today was a snow day,” I replied in an off-hand manner.

“What?” he said incredulously. “A snow day? What snow?”

“Welcome to Tennessee, Dad. Any measurable snowfall usually results in widespread closures. In some areas, just the threat that it might snow tomorrow can get schools dismissed early the day before.”

He just shook his head in wonderment and wandered into the kitchen for a snack, muttering under his breath.

I certainly understood his puzzlement, but I had lived here for so many years at that point I didn’t give it a second thought anymore. Besides, my first introduction to the concept of a snow day south of the Mason-Dixon Line wasn’t in Tennessee.

It was in Texas.

Believe me, Tennesseans are a veritable band of hardy Eskimos compared to Texans where snowstorms are concerned.

* * *

It was early 1996, sometime in February if I recall. I was a medical student doing part of my training at the old Osteopathic Medical Center of Texas. I had arrived the month before, driving from twenty degree weather in Iowa to a balmy early January day in the low seventies in Fort Worth. Being able to wear shorts outdoors at that time of the year was quite a novelty to me.

Late one evening, I was watching a TV newscast in a small apartment the hospital provided for out-of-town students. I heard in passing reports of a “winter storm” headed for North Texas the next day. I was busy studying my notes on acid-base disorders for an upcoming nephrology quiz, so I didn’t pay much attention. My Iowa brain just heard “winter storm” and thought, “Huh. Guess I’d better dress in layers tomorrow.”

Early the next morning, I woke up and peeked out the bedroom window. The grass was covered with a light crust of snow, but the sidewalk and the street appeared merely wet.

“Well, I guess that winter storm must not have materialized,” I thought to myself.

I climbed out of bed, got showered and dressed, and walked down the block to the hospital for another day on the 4th floor internal medicine ward. When I arrived at the nurse’s station, I immediately noticed that the place was much more hushed and subdued than usual. There were almost no nurses—or anybody else for that matter—on the floor.

I went to one of the computer terminals to run off a patient list for the morning. A ward clerk suddenly materialized and demanded, “What are you doing here?”

“Uh, printing my patient census for rounds. Why?” I replied quizzically.

She looked at me with wide-eyed amazement and said, “Don’t you know that it’s a snow day? Only essential staff need to be here. The students are off.”

I looked back at her, eyebrow raised, and said, “Really?”

She made a shooing motion and said impatiently, “Yes! Now, go on, get out of here. Just be sure to listen to the forecast tonight in case we’re only running essential staff again tomorrow.”

Well… okay.

I certainly wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth when it came to an unexpected day off, but a snow day? Seriously? I’d seen more frost in my mom’s chest freezer in the garage back home than was on the ground that morning in Fort Worth.

I gave a small shrug, logged off the computer, and shouldered my backpack. As I headed back to the elevator lobby, I pondered what I’d do with the free day ahead of me, pleasantly surprised at this favorable turn of events.

* * *

Once I’d walked back to the apartment, I decided a cold day like this called for some homemade chili, so I got my keys and went out to the car. After quickly brushing a light skim of snow off the windshield, I set out for a nearby Albertsons grocery store to procure the necessary ingredients.

As I drove slowly down Camp Bowie Boulevard towards the interstate on-ramp, I tested the brakes a couple of times to see if there was any “slide” on the pavement. Nope. Not a bit. It didn’t seem there was much to worry about. A gentle shroud of snowflakes continued to drift down, but didn’t appear to be causing any problems.

Pulling onto the interstate I was stunned. It was a Tuesday morning in downtown Fort Worth. Despite this, on the short drive to the exit for the grocery store the highway was almost totally devoid of traffic. I don’t suppose I encountered more than ten cars on the road. I had never seen the city—any city, really—look this deserted on a weekday morning.

The grocery store parking lot hosted a total of three cars and some guy in a golf cart driving back and forth—sprinkling what I assume was rock salt—to melt ice that so far appeared to exist only in theory. I got out of my vehicle, staring at the empty expanse of pavement in utter amazement.

All of this for what to my Iowan eyes looked like snow flurries?

Well, bless their hearts…

Entering the store, I noticed a single checkout lane was open, with the cashier leaning on the register, talking to a bag boy. They appeared to be the only employees in the store.

As I recall browsing those deserted aisles now, it puts me in mind of the early 2000s zombie apocalypse thriller “28 Days Later.” I was like Cillian Murphy in rumpled scrubs, wandering the aisles, calling out “Hello? Hello?” as I searched for canned pinto beans, diced tomatoes, and signs of life.

When I’d finally gathered what I needed to make dinner, I headed to the open check out lane. As the cashier was scanning my purchases, another brave soul came in the entrance to the store stamping his feet, a light swirl of snowflakes trailing behind him.

“Wow…the second customer of the morning,” the cashier muttered. “I can’t believe anybody would be crazy enough to get out in this today.” She looked up at me as she said this—almost accusingly—then snapped her gum and resumed scanning my items.

As the snow—all twenty-eight flakes of it—continued to fall softly under the orange sodium lights in the parking lot, I looked back at her with a crooked grin and uttered the words I’ve since come to say to Southerners many times over the years when they question my decision to venture out of the house on a “snow day.”

“It’s okay. I’m from Iowa.”