What I Learned from My Very First Snow Day

And the Writing Lessons I've Never Forgotten

As the snow from last week’s storm still clings to the shadows, a new blizzard is apparently soon to arrive. A nor’easter they call it, so we’re preparing for Round Two.

This wintry mix of ice and sleet and snow has reminded me of my very first Snow Day. I was seven years old.

My family had just moved to the heart of the Ozark Mountains, in the Northwest corner of Arkansas. In the middle of the school year, I stepped into a new second grade classroom. My new teacher asked me where I was from.

I said, “I’m from California.”

My new classmates said I talked funny, and they asked if I knew how to surf and if I had palm trees in my backyard. I didn’t know what they were talking about. I was from a small farming town in Northern California, where rice fields stretch for miles.

Soon after starting at this school, I woke up one morning to see a sheet of white snow covering everything outside the window. I had never seen real snow before, and I had always wanted to build a snowman. Then my mom said the most glorious thing I had ever heard. She said school was cancelled because of the snow! She called it a “Snow Day.”

Well, we never had any of those back home!

So, I bundled up as best I could, but within 30 minutes I was soaked clean through. Being from California, we weren’t equipped yet with the proper jackets and gloves. But I didn’t care. I was determined to build my first real snowman.

The snow, however, wouldn’t stick together. My snowman looked more like a pile of white mush with a carrot on top — because everyone knows that a snowman needs a carrot for a nose. But my disappointment over a failed snowman soon dissipated as I shivered my way through the rest of the afternoon, delighted by my very first Snow Day.

When it was time to go back to school, my second grade teacher asked the class to write a story about what they did for their Snow Day. I wrote about my failed snowman-blob and how the snow tasted prickly on my tongue and how I struggled to make a simple snowball. I also mentioned I was surprised by how cold the snow was!

The next day, the teacher said she wanted to read a special story by one of the students. Then she read my story. I was convinced she picked my story because I used fancy words. Thanks to Crayola, I always included elaborate adjectives whenever I described a setting — such as the clear cerulean sky and the bold tangerine sun. I might have even mentioned the way my freezing lips turned a certain shade of wisteria.

Yes, at the ripe ole’ age of seven, I figured I was a dandy writer by virtue of my Crayola-inspired fanciness.

As my teacher read my story aloud, I heard my classmates gasp in awe. Except it wasn’t my fancy words that impressed them. It was the fact that I admitted I had never before seen snow. They couldn’t imagine a person living seven long years without ever seeing snow!

That’s when I realized it wasn’t my clever adjectives or impressive words that made my story any good. For that particular audience, my story was just different. That’s all.

My very first Snow Day taught me an important writing lesson: Good stories have an uncommon angle.

A great vocabulary might be nice, but we’re wise to tell a story straight. Clean and simple. If we’re drawing attention to ourselves with endless bouts of alliteration and over-the-top rhyming schemes, then we’re actually pulling our readers out of the story.

Great writing never draws attention to the writer. A good writer knows how to slip into the background and let the story live and breathe without unnecessary flourish.

But I learned something else that day. After the teacher read my story to the class, a girl named Jennifer R. came up to me at recess and invited me to play with her. I remember her last initial because there were about five Jennifers in our class, and they were all differentiated by virtue of their last initial. Jennifer R. became my best friend in Arkansas.

Being a quiet kid who was new to this school, I hadn’t made friends very quickly or easily. But somehow my story about the snow opened someone else’s heart to extend friendship to me. And that is something I’ve never forgotten.

Stories have the power to build bridges between hearts.

This is one of the main reasons I continue to write. Perhaps somewhere out there, a story or two will resonate with someone. And someday in eternity, maybe we can connect over a pot of tea. Surely heaven will have tea, won’t it? I hope so.

This past week, as a storm blew across several states, I couldn’t help but wonder how many kids experienced their very first Snow Day? And which of them, I wonder, will become writers in the decades to come?

For me, I know I will always be grateful for Jennifer R.

Shalom.

Denise

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A Few Notes…

*While Waiting for Morning: An Invitation to Pray is available. If you’re like me and you prefer to hold a printed book in your hands, you can find a copy at Barnes and Noble or Amazon.

*Thank you for your vote of confidence when you tap on the “heart” at the top of each post. And, as always, you are welcome to share these words with a friend.

*And lastly, no part of this newsletter — nor anything I have ever published — has been made with Artificial Intelligence (AI) or ghostwriters. All of my words, including any accidental typos, are my own, except for when I quote others with appropriate citations and links.