"When I Was Your Age ..."

I am not that old -- I'm not even close to being "middle aged." And yet ... I said it. I said the very thing that older folks are teased for saying, the thing that you just know comes out of every Grandma's mouth at one point or another, the thing that every Grandpa utters with his grandchild on his knee.

"When I was your age ..."

We've all heard it. The sentence can be finished in any variety of ways. Most often it is used in reference to weather, poor clothing, or sheer fortitude on their parts.

"When I was your age, it was unheard of to cancel school because of snow. I walked through five feet of snow, in bare feet, for ten miles just to get to school. And on the way home the snow had doubled, and so did the mileage, and my feet were still bare, so quitchyer bellyachin' ..."

Last night ... last night ...I got a call from one of the class moms, informing me that school is canceled for today because of the snow.

I looked out the window. What snow?

The snow that is coming.

It's 8:42 a.m. right now and there is no snow to be seen. Is it coming? Yes, perhaps, maybe, who knows ... but no one really knows how much. The reports I have heard this morning range from one paralyzing inch to possibly 9 time-to-draw-up-your-will inches. It's coming ... it's coming ...

Come on, people! This is New Jersey. Northern New Jersey! Why all of a sudden do we have this tremendous panicky shutting down of life because of a little snow?

"When I was your age ..."

Ach! I said it! I really did. I said to Don last night, when I was a kid school wasn't canceled often, and when it was it occurred on days when we woke up to the actual site of massive amounts of white flakes coursing to the ground, piling up with a frenzy. If the snow was absent, but the forecast was ominous, we went to school anyway ... and those days were the best days of all. No one could concentrate as the sky grew darker, the air grew colder, filled with some eerie, tingly anticipation that something really big was going to happen. The teachers tried to teach, but their gazes kept shifting from our distracted faces to the window, and back again. They felt it too; you know they did. Some inner childlike excitement was sparked in them as well, you just knew it, but they had to work hard to mask it by diligently plowing on with the lesson. We grew more and more jittery, wiggling in our seats, letting out a great cheer as the first flakes finally fell from the sky. Give it an hour or so, until the excitement built up to such a level that you felt you would burst from it, and then the permission came, to grab your stuff and head for the bus. Time to go home. It felt like Christmas.

“When I was your age …”

It was more fun. Now kids are sheltered from this kind of excitement, this anticipation of something big, something unusual. Snow days are called before anything even happens, so when your kid wakes up in the morning, there’s nothing going on, nothing to look forward to. Just another day, really. I’m sure a lot of it has to do with being safe – why risk slippery roads with your precious child in the car? Who would want to do that? OK, I’ll admit it – not me. But still … it just makes you wonder.

I get really annoyed with weather forecasters. Don’t even bother, folks – admit the fact that you just don’t know what’s going to happen and leave it at that. Let us have some fun, some excitement. Life is getting so planned, so predictable … let us wait. Let us imagine. Let us anticipate. Let that excitement build up to the point of combustion, where we have no choice but to let out a frenzied whoop of joy. Our kids can go to school in one inch of snow; they can come home if the numbers start to climb. Forget predictions; just let it happen. Don’t take away the mystery, the guessing, the wondering what will happen.

“When I was your age …”

I don’t want to get old, and I still can’t believe I said that. I laughed at myself. And yet … my childhood was filled with wonder. My wish for my kids is that they will be able to say the same.

And now I bid you all a wondrous, hopefully-soon-to-be-white, farewell as I head outdoors, throwing a spade-full of dirt at the weather forecasters, the dampeners of anticipation, as I plant our 14 newly arrived tulip bulbs.

“When I was your age …”
Sometimes I wish I still was.