BOCCOLINI: I’m Dreaming of a White Halloween

I used to believe in magic. In fact, one of my dad’s childhood friends is a magician. But that is neither here nor there, my friends. What is here, however, is snow. As I stood in line with a friend at the Barnes and Noble “sale” that took place on Thursday night, wet, sleet-like flakes fell on our umbrellas. It was cold, it was windy and it was not at all magical. Now it’s not like back then, when we all prayed for snow days by wearing our pajamas inside out and sleeping with spoons under our pillows.

Now, when I look out our seventh floor window and see flakes falling, I’d rather crawl back into bed than even think about walking to class. It used to be that I would lay in bed awake, listening for the ringing of the phone and the subsequent recorded voice that let you know it was going to be a good day. Then I’d walk downstairs (after sleeping for a few more hours, of course), eat breakfast and run back upstairs to put on my warmest clothes and the requisite snow pants.

You see, childhood snow days were all about cooperation. There was a sort of unspoken code to the whole thing that no one outside our side of the neighborhood knew about. We all sledded at the same family’s house every year, which, as well as being a central meeting point, had a side lawn which was a giant hill. I would bring the two-person toboggan, the kid down the street would bring those discs that looked like upside down trashcan lids and the family up the street would provide the snowboards.

Soon hats and outer coats would be shed as neighbors came together to build snowboard ramps out of melting ice and threw snowballs at oncoming snowplows. Then, as the day finished, we’d all head inside, leaving wet clothes in the laundry room before heading to the kitchen to make hot chocolate, the white snow outside looking pink to unadjusted eyes.

But now, well, now means coming home to a car covered in snow and ice and scraping until your hands are numb, removing just enough ice so that you can see out the windshield without really getting the full view of the road. It means your dad handing you a shovel and pointing toward the sidewalk as he pushes the snow blower ever so slowly down the driveway. For me and countless others, it means worrying your way home might just be cancelled.

And so, as the flakes fall a bit earlier this year, I wonder if the magic is totally gone. I still love a White Christmas as much as the next person, but I suspect that’s because lately we’ve been lucky if it snows on Christmas, if at all. Snow in October has caught us off guard. We weren’t ready! I had to wear a scarf to class, guys. A SCARF. If I’m this upset now, I don’t want to think about how I’ll feel come December.  Probably like that lady that gets sawed in half in the magic show.

Liz Boccolini is a freshman in the College of Communication and a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. She can be reached at lizboc@bu.edu.