As a kid, snow days meant waking earlier than on a regular school day to tune into the local FM radio station and the smooth voice of the morning announcer. No message scrolling across the bottom of the television screen or internet to check email or an instant text from the school.

The radio announcer read off all the schools and business closings. In alphabetical order. So, if you tuned in when he was in the H's, it could take a bit for him to get back around to the B's to find out if the county schools were closed. Sometimes an ad or jingle or a bit of news had to be shared before he started over again. This scenario might go on long enough to wonder if you better go ahead and get dressed or risk missing the bus, just in case.

A long sigh or a whoop for joy erupted once we heard our school was closed. The pestering began straight away. How soon could we go out and play? The business of breakfast came first. Followed by layering up as soon as we could convince our grandmother that eight or nine o'clock in the morning was not too early. No waiting to see if it warmed up if the sun even came out. We had stuff to do!

A snowman was our top priority. As big and fat as my sister and I could roll three balls in descending size to stack on top of each other without falling apart. Maybe our cousins from next door had already joined us and the team competition had begun.

After the snowman, or several were built, we might tackle an igloo or a fort. In, around, and between all of the above were the snowball fights. Not to mention a few tears if anyone got struck in the face. An icy ball of hard snow smashing into an already cold face? Well...

By lunchtime, we dragged wet boots and gloves, cherry red cheeks, and hearty appetites into our grandmother's kitchen. Like a drill sergeant, she issued orders where to put our wet things to dry while filling bowls with steaming homemade vegetable soup, vegetables we had helped pick, string, or peel the summer before.

Bellies full and warm, we pulled on our semi-dry layers again to head for the hill behind our cousins' house next door. We zipped, flipped, tumbled our way down over and over until our legs gave way, and we were out of breath from laughing or climbing back up the hill or both.

Before trudging back into the kitchen and stripping off our wet boots and coats again, one of us stuck our head in the door and asked our grandmother for a big pot and spoon.

Once inside, she got out the milk, sugar, and vanilla. We made snow cream and ate our fill. Too fast before it melted, which often resulted in a case of brain freeze. Worn out and tired of the cold, we settled around the kitchen table, next to the wood stove, which sat beside the electric cook stove but served as a heat source and for cooking, especially if the power went out. Someone dragged out the Monopoly or other board game, and a different competition began.

The waning afternoon hours were spent trying to buy property or staying out of jail or drawing a Sorry card to send an opponent back to start. If we were lucky, we drank mugs of hot chocolate made with Hersey's Dutch-processed cocoa. If we were really lucky, our grandmother had a bag of big fat marshmallows to float one or two on top.

By the time our cousins had to go home, supper was over, and bedtime came, we were ready to tuck in and dreaming of more snow in the night so we could do it all over again tomorrow.

What a lovely meditation this memory has been on this February snow day, as I fed the birds and drank hot tea in a good china cup. Maybe I will check the pantry later and see if it holds a can of Hersey's Dutch-processed cocoa. I know I have a partial bag of mini-marshmallows.