This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2010, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.
Sunday night my 17-year-old son went to bed feeling pretty certain that Monday would be a "snow day." We were buried beneath layers of the white stuff here in the Aves, and the storm showed no signs of stopping. (Also, we had some corn for popping.) (Also, the lights were turned way down low.) (Also, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.)
"Dude," I told him, "prepare to be disappointed. This is Utah, not the greater D.C. metropolitan area. We don't do snow days here, although apparently we are willing to shut the whole town down for a fake Blizzard of the Century."
Speaking of which, I entertained myself after "The Storm of 2010 that Wasn't" by writing headlines describing the event: "BLIZZARD SCHMIZZARD" or "THE BLIZZ THAT FIZZED."
My son wasn't convinced about the snow day thing, however. And he still wasn't convinced the following morning when I told him that the game was on like Donkey Kong at West High. I caught him in the kitchen, glumly eating cereal while listening with fading hope to radio reports on school closures in an effort to prove me wrong.
Which bugged me. A lot, actually. Why can't kids just take my word for stuff? So then I started with him.
"Well, guess what," I told my glum, cereal-eating son, "I never even heard of a snow day when I was growing up. And let me tell you, there was snow when I was growing up. Lots of snow. Big snow. Everywhere you looked. Snow, snow, snow. We had snow coming out of our ears when I was growing up. Ear snow. That's what we had. Lots of ear snow. Everywhere you looked. Miles and miles of ear snow."
I wasn't finished. Not even close.
"When your dad and I were kids in Provo, we got up at 4 in the morning just to milk the family cows. And when we were done with our cows, we went looking for other people's cows. We stood on street corners and shouted, 'Come here, all you other people's cows, so we can milk you! EVEN THOUGH IT'S 4 IN THE MORNING AND THE STREETS ARE COVERED WITH EAR SNOW!' "
Now, here's the thing. While I was in the middle of this rant, I kind of believed what I was saying — i.e. that as a young girl growing up in Utah County, I leapt out of bed at the wintry crack of dawn to help my family out on the cow front.
But of course my family didn't have actual cows. Just a dog. And I never ever got out of bed at 4. Unless it was 4 in the afternoon.
We had snow, though. I wasn't lying about that part.
Anyhoodle, my son just stared at me. I could tell by the look on his face that he was thinking, "Oh, no! My mom has Crazy Old People's Disease! Pretty soon she'll be wandering around town with her wig on backward and her teeth in her purse, because that's where this is definitely headed."
So my boy put his spoon down. Slowly. And backed out of the room. Also slowly. Then he grabbed his coat and his backpack and ran all the way to school, where he discovered that, ha ha ha ha, I was right. It wasn't a snow day after all.
Yes! Score one for the mom.
Ann Cannon can be reached at acannon@sltrib.com.