Boots

The cool thing about the internet is that you can look up stuff like, “What day of the week was January 19, 1978?” It was a Thursday.

On Thursday, January 19, 1978 (a school night), I slept over my best friend Lia’s house. The only reason this had been allowed was that a snowstorm was predicted, and we were guaranteed a snow day when we awoke on Friday. I’m not too sure why we assumed this to be a guarantee, since the superintendent of the school system at the time rarely called off school. Thus far, we had sucked it up and trudged through snow, subzero temperatures, and hurricanes almost as a rule. And we cursed him for this – early and often – but that’s another story.  

I know this was the January blizzard of 1978 – and not the one in February, a few weeks later – because Lia’s house still had some plastic, red and yellow, light-up Christmas candle decorations visible on the roof outside her bedroom window. (Actually, these were awesome decorations which, I believe, my current next-door neighbor must have also bought from Branch Brook Pools in the ‘70s – meaning, that is, they will last for-e-ver). The next day – January 20th – was my mom’s birthday, so maybe my being allowed to sleep out on a school night had more to do with that than the impending snow. Either way, the stars were in alignment.

Earlier that evening, we had gone to visit my grandma. On the way home, the snow began to fall – first, as sparse flurries tickling our faces while we left the nursing home, then in earnest as we neared Nutley, where my parents dropped me off at Lia’s house. Bounding up the stairs to her room, I recall hearing a radio somewhere in the house playing Rhinestone Cowboy, and I dug that song. It was a sure sign that we were set – I hoped – for a full night, and a full next day, of uninterrupted play with our stuffed toy camels named Humpy (uh, never mind), and whatever else it was that second graders did in 1978. 

The snow fell. All night. It floated from the sky, half-lit by the rampant whiteness, those plastic candles glowing brightly underneath. We watched (nestled with our respective Humpys, of course), whispering our plans to brave this newly-fallen tundra in the morning.

Oh, wait. I had no boots with me. A minor – albeit somewhat important – detail (in the mind of a second grader, anyway). Drifting off to sleep, nuzzling Humpy in the semi-lit darkness, I anticipated tomorrow’s winter amusements, sans boots. It was a risk I was prepared to take.

Pfft. Boots? Boots are for suckers. 

In the morning, there was a ton of snow. Everywhere. The sunlight glinted off of it, almost blinding us. But our eyes were young and tough. And so were our feet. You know, the feet with no boots? The feet – my feet – with only red Thom McAn sneakers to protect them from the mountains of unshoveled snow piled to almost a third of my total height.

Outside we went. A full morning of snow abbondanza – snowballs, snow forts, snowmen, snow angels, and the ritualistic eating of snow. Snow caked on our mittens and hats. Melting snow leaking through the space between our mittens and coat sleeves, dripping inside our wrists. Dampening the seats of our pants. And drenching the hems of our Toughskin jeans. When I finally realized I was missing a sneaker, I panicked. I tugged my foot out of the snow, grayish sock sodden, and wondered how I was getting home without her noticing. “Her” being my mother – the “Her” with the power to spoil this perfectly wonderful snow day over a lost sneaker. (Back then, kids didn’t have ten pairs of sneakers; they had one. And now I had a half of one.) 

Red stands out in the snow, right?

Oh, but not that day. We could not find that red sneaker. 

We went back inside. We had the obligatory French toast and hot chocolate feast which follows all fine snow outings. The gray sock – and the Toughskins – dried. And my dad came to pick me up. 

Whew. Because he didn’t notice the missing sneaker. It was probably all he could do to drive the four blocks to get me in that snow. Not being a snow lover, lost driving in town on the best of days, even on bare roads, and almost certainly preoccupied with the work of snow removal both behind him as well as ahead of him that day, he was mildly oblivious. Thus, I managed to get home with only one sneaker. And into the house. And then back outside, boots securely on both feet. A close call, for sure.

On Sunday, after it had been nearly 40 degrees for 3 days, the red sneaker must have appeared in the slush. The doorbell rang, and there was Lia, holding it. Handing it to my mom.

“We found the sneaker!”

Oh, yes, thank you. The sneaker. Buh-bye. Thanks for stopping by. See you tomorrow at school. 

“Not so fast, you.” The sneaker landed with a thud on the towel which had been carefully placed to separate salty, wet feet entering the house from the recently redone floor. “You wore sneakers in the snow?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why didn’t you call? I would have walked over with your boots.”  Happy birthday, Mommy.

The “duh” hung in the air like a bunch of wet snowflakes barreling towards a plastic Christmas candle. 

Duh. Then I started sniffling. And coughing. Because second graders don’t pay doctor bills, as I was reminded then.  Which I thought of, again, the next day, while walking to school,where I thanked Lia for kindly returning my red sneaker. While wearing my boots.

Boots, the likes of which I have worn in every single snowstorm since 1978, Thursdays and otherwise.