Snow Day

Fred loves snow days, possibly even more than the middle school students to whom he teaches science.

At 6 am today, Fred had muttered a request. When his smart speaker confirmed that the schools were closed due to inclement weather, he fell back asleep without ever lifting an eyelid.

Eventually, opening his front door, dressed in gloves and a light jacket, he was greeted by painfully crisp air, and sunlight so bright that his retinas ached with blurry joy as the pupils struggled to adjust.

Fred was ready to shovel.

Like most middle-aged adults, he would complain about the snow, but this was actually the time of year he felt most excited about life. Everything seemed less predictable. The nearly two feet of fresh snow is wet and sticky, perfect for building forts or snowmen. During the hour he spends moving the snowfall, he muses about which of his students would likely construct snowy wonders, which would go sledding, and which would stay inside and watch TV.

Thoroughly warmed up from clearing his driveway, Fred set to work shoveling snow into a large pile before digging out around the base and sculpting a massive snowman, taller than himself.

After adding a carrot and two coal eyes, he kept real coal for just this occasion, he took a selfie with his creation and uploaded it to Instagram.

Several of his students liked it.

Day 2

As a kid, Fred had felt snow days were like gambling. You could skip your homework, or avoid studying for a test, but you were playing the odds. He supposed that was how, as an adult, he developed the habit of buying a scratch-off ticket before any potential snow day.

Normally, he would have checked the weather the night before, but upon checking his snow-day scratcher, it had revealed itself to be a $20,000 winner!

Perhaps not an amount to retire on, but still a life-changing amount of cash, and he had used the remainder of his night to dream about how he might spend all that money.

Because of this, he is already showered and dressed for work before discovering the additional two feet of sparkling white powder that had fallen overnight.

“A long weekend, then. I guess.” He says, not disappointed.

After shoveling for an hour, Fred considers rebuilding his giant snowman but instead goes inside to check the weather.

The 5-day forecast shows only potential light accumulation for the rest of the week. He then confirms that the nearby New York state lottery claims center is open on Saturdays, and decides to make the hour drive to redeem his winning ticket in the morning.

Day 3

Fred is growing increasingly anxious. Sleep is eluding him. He had fallen asleep, for some amount of time, but whatever time it was now, was still well before sunrise.

Finally, “Alexa, what time is it?” he demands.

“Dong!” His speaker responds, “Your device is having trouble connecting to the internet.”

After some fumbling, he is squinting at his phone and is dumbfounded to find that it is still only midnight. Disorientation floods in, however, as he notes the “PM”, indicating noon.

Flicking on his bedroom light, he laughs to realize that a thick snowdrift has covered the windows.

Then, concern creeps in when he finds the path he shoveled yesterday has nearly four additional feet of fresh snow clogging it.

Fred begins to hunt for his snowshoes.

The roads are not plowed, which, despite the massive snowfall, is still alarming. Lansing may not be great at keeping side roads clear during a storm but they’re usually efficient afterward, and the sun had been shining for hours.

Fred reaches the small grocery store at the end of his street, out of breath and sweating. He is relieved to find the parking lot is plowed with clear access to the main road. He realizes he was starting to feel like the last man alive and tries to laugh about that as he heads for the door.

Inside is filled with quiet, frantic shopping.

There is no bread, nor milk, of course. He does find plenty of cheap instant ramen squares and a few bottles of V8. He had discovered that the ramen flavor packets were best put in the trash but cooking the instant noodles in original style V8 juice made for a somewhat healthier lunch, though just as salty.

He already had plenty of canned and frozen meats at home, though emergency-grade now, he supposed, as most were surely expired.

The fresh meat section offered a single container of greying hamburger, with a child-finger sized hole in its center.

He opts for two packs of hotdogs and the last package of buns.

There are no fresh fruits or veggies.

While standing in the brown pool of slush at the checkout line, somewhat amazed that none of his fellow anxious shoppers have slipped yet, he spots notebooks for sale.

He could make a fake journal of his snow-day adventures for his students, Fred thinks, and instantly loves the idea. He had seen some YouTube teachers who had made fictional journals of relevant current events and remembered that the kids seemed to respond well to the personal angle. This seemed perfect for his section on meteorology coming up in a few weeks.

He buys one small black notebook, along with his other meager findings, and begins his trek back over the snow towards his house.

At least they aren’t predicting any more snow for the week.

Day 4

Fred is woken up by uncomfortably cold air.

He receives no response when he inquires, “Alexa, what time it is?”

His light switch refuses to render the room any brighter.

Fumbling through his dark, grave-silent house, he finds no light peeking through any doors or windows, though his near-dead phone insists it is 10:18 am.

Panic begins to grip him.

He walks quickly to his garage, barely suppressing a run. The previous owners had stored a dump truck in there, so the door was unusually high, and Fred is relieved to see that there is some sky showing between the snow and the top of the garage's door frame.

The panic is pushed back, though not gone.

He finds his 20-pound propane tank in the garage and hooks up his emergency propane stove-heater combo, reasonably sure that there is enough ventilation from the door to prevent carbon monoxide poisoning.

He begins to craft a hard-packed staircase of snow towards the surface.

After several hours of work, he is finally looking out over his neighborhood, but only sees large white nubs suggestive of trees and houses buried beneath the snow.

The sun is shining.

Struggling to swallow his fear and the urge to run for a neighbor's house, assuming walking on fresh snow this deep could easily be deadly, he goes back inside to think.

He can’t imagine more snow is coming, but if his stairway collapses overnight, and ices over, then he might be stuck without fresh air for a while. That would leave him unable to cook or heat.

No heat is manageable (he makes air quotes to himself as he thinks the word “manageable”), but he needs to cook all of the raw meat from his freezers tonight.

By the light of his propane lantern, he inventories all batteries and flashlights before moving them to the bathroom, having already converted the tub into a cramped, but heavily insulated, sleeping area.

He had installed a basement handpump connected directly to his well several winters ago. He had lost power for over a week and vowed to never drink melted snow again. It might freeze, but he estimates that it will be days before the temperature in the house dips that low and is optimistic that the situation will be over before then.

Day 5

He has been at it for hours now. Carefully excavating the snow and adding stair after stair to his hard-packed tunnel to the surface.

But he has still not reached daylight.

3 hours later, fear of being suffocated in a sudden collapse finally convinces him to stop.

He estimates that his failed surface tunnel now reaches over 25 feet up and is horrified at the thought of being beneath so much snow.

He attempts to mollify his panic by insisting that while this may be a storm for the history books, it cannot go on forever. Sometime soon, the sun will once again poke through the snowfall, and he just needs to stay calm until then.

He resolves to use his light sparingly, not looking forward to long, dark, silent days but unable to bear the thought of not having the option at all.

So far, the toilets still flush and the handpump still yields fresh water.

He retreats to his bathtub nest and makes a faux journal entry in his notebook, which has become his therapeutic ritual. He can almost believe the amusing lies he is recorded in its pages.

The sight of his winning scratch-off ticket still fills his imagination with fire and warms his soul. He has secured it to the white tiled wall of his shower with poster-tac, which he had to work diligently in his fingers to get warm and sticky.

Finally, he clicks off his light and lets darkness consume him.

Day 6

Sudden panic rips Fred out of near sleep.

He was thinking gently about not wanting to eat uncooked hotdogs for breakfast again. He wasn't cooking because there was no fresh air. Then, he finally realized that his body was depleting oxygen and expelling carbon dioxide which would eventually become equally deadly.

Breathing slowly, he calculates.

The house is one story with about 1,800 square feet and 10-foot-high ceilings. The basement is the same square footage with 7-foot-high ceilings, plus the attic and the large garage.

That should be a bit over... 39,000 cubic feet of air and he estimates he is using just under 400 cubic feet of air a day.

Sighing with relief, he guesses he has well over 3 months of breathable air.

Winter would be over before then.

Day 63

Fred has settled into a routine.

Upon waking, he visits the garage to check for light twinkling through the open garage door. After seeing none, he blindly fills his bucket with snow to carry back to what he now calls “His Den”, previously the bathroom. Being the smallest room in the house, it is the easiest to keep warm by body heat.

He has become adept at navigating through the unyielding dark of his house.

Arriving at what he now calls “The Store”, he allows one short blast from his flashlight to take a mental photo of his remaining food before picking out that day's rations.

He isn’t sure if he has tracked the days perfectly, but if so, today is April 14th. He allows another short burst of illumination to check his notebook, where he now just makes a tick mark for each day that passes. His flashlight’s battery has become far too precious to spend on writing.

He adds one new mark.

Early on, Fred worried about flooding from an eventual thaw, or that the house might collapse under the crushing weight of untold amounts of snow. But now he believes either would be a welcome change.

Any change, he thinks with quiet desperation, in this silent frozen darkness, would be a very welcome change indeed.

He spends day 63 slowly gnawing on frozen, precooked meat and dry instant ramen. He washes it down with occasional snow from his bucket, his pipes having froze long ago. He limits his exertions to avoid burning oxygen unnecessarily.

Eventually, he decides it's time for bed and feels his way to the sleeping tub.

Settled in, he allows one last burst of light.

With it, he enjoys the sight of his winning ticket, still stuck to the shower wall.

He slowly drifts off to sleep, dreaming about how he will spend all that money.