Virginia snow day conjures up memories of Valley home

I dreamed of a White Christmas in 2015. But in Blacksburg, Virginia, where I now live, the month of December was disappointingly warm and mild, and I became very, very homesick.

I know that Palmer hasn’t had any snow yet either, but in my mind my hometown is perennially frosted from November to May. I ached to be back home on Fishhook Road, at the bottom of our sledding hill in a pile of fresh powder, looking up at the roof, windows, and porch covered by a perfect layer of white, obscured only by my visible breath.

Last weekend a belated Christmas gift arrived just for me: “Snow Storm Jonas.”

It began on Thursday—not the actual snow, mind you, but the preparation for it. Before I saw a single flake, the school district canceled school for the next day. Then Virginia Tech, where my husband is a PhD student, canceled classes. It seemed the whole town shut down — the library, preschool, playgroup, church: all canceled Friday through Sunday.

My neighbors rushed to the store and cleared the shelves of milk, eggs, bread, bottled water and other necessities, then shut themselves inside and hunkered down. I bought sleds and eagerly hauled out my bin of untouched winter gear.

Having my husband Micah home for an unplanned three-day weekend was a luxury, as I am usually a solo caretaker for our 2 ½ year old, Rosy, and one-year-old, Atticus, nine hours per day. Friday morning, while I waited anxiously for the snow to fall, we played with Play-Doh, made popsicles, and became clients of Rosy’s sensory sand “beauty shop.”

When the snow deepened to warrant boots, we bundled our two toddlers into their winter clothes, reenacting the scene from “A Christmas Story.” Atticus played Randy, and if he could talk he would have echoed, “I can’t put my arms down!” He also couldn’t walk very well, and lay supine in the snow until Micah or I righted him, again and again and again.

We put both kids in the sled and began tromping through the snow to a big hill several blocks away. Soon enough, I was carrying Atticus, and while the wind whipped at my face, and my arms began to strain, I wondered if I might like instead to skip the sledding and fast-forward to my other homesick fantasy: hot chocolate.

Luckily, my husband has more of the never-say-die, adventurous, Alaskan spirit than I do, and we continued the trek until we’d reached the hill’s summit.

We weren’t the only ones at the sledding hill, but our kids were by far the youngest thrill-seekers. They both enjoyed a few rides down the hill before they opted out in favor of eating snow and making snow angels. (That was alright by me, since watching them fly down the hill scared me just a little. Wasn’t the sport a bit safer when I was a kid?)

Micah and I took turns sledding down the hill as fast we could — headfirst, feet first, hitting jumps, catching air, and getting white washed. Every run brought back a flood of memories from my childhood, and each run of Micah’s cemented new images. How hilarious Rosy looked in adult-sized hot pink ski goggles, how unimaginably cute Atti’s pink cheeks and frosted eyelashes looked, and how fortunate we were to narrowly avoid a disaster involving my daughter’s wet tongue and a cold metal fence.

In the end, it took longer to dress the kids to go outside than it did to actually go sledding, but since the kids were getting cold, we headed home — Rosy in the sled and Atti again in my arms. Once back in our two-bedroom apartment, we sipped hot chocolate, licked our homemade popsicles, and watched “Up,” cuddled together under blankets.

The next two days we played in Storm Jonas — sledding, throwing snow balls and even making a snowman named “Ellie,” complete with carrot nose and sidewalk chalk eyes. After Jonas departed Sunday night, leaving behind snow crisscrossed by the tracks of my three favorite people, I looked out the window and felt my homesickness fade away.

Rosy and Atti won’t remember Snow Storm Jonas, but I’ll remember him fondly. I’m too old now to enjoy a snow day at my childhood home, and life hasn’t yet settled us back in Alaska. However, I understand now that I can’t re-create my childhood memories, but I can make new, precious adult memories — ones that include my own kids.

I realized on that snowy day in Virginia I do not have to be in Alaska to feel like I am at home. My home is where my heart is: here, with Micah, Rosy and Atticus.

Though snow helps, too.

Rachel Kenley Fry was born and raised in Palmer and graduated from Utah State University in 2012 with degrees in journalism and agricultural communication. Her previous work for the Frontiersman includes two years as a “Student Views” columnist and contributions for a “What to Eat” column while she was an intern with the Alaska Division of Agriculture. She currently lives in Virginia with her husband and two children.