For nearly a week, the area where I reside has been in “snow day” mode.
When I was a child, snow days were all about no school and sledding and snowmen and snowballs… with the emphasis on “no school.”
Now that I am an adult, snow days are all about no work and shoveling and shoveling and genealogy. (Say what? I did say “no work,” right?)
When I informed my spouse that I would be spending a large chuck my snow days researching our families’ histories, he gave me a pained, yet indulgent look—the kind bestowed upon chattering, constantly moving kiddies or eccentric, off-their-rockers old ladies. As I am neither (at least, I sincerely hope I am not), I did not interpret his glance as a thumbs-up, “Way-to-go, honey” type of look.
Despite his lackluster support, in between plowing through piles of snow, I plowed through piles of paperwork, searching for our ancestors. I found the whole experience heart-touching, as if those kin were reaching out, between the pages, to pat me on the head or hold my hand.
Even though it was cold outside, I was warmed by the fact that these people had existed and that their lives mattered… at least to me. Not a bad way to spend a snow day, don’t you think?