SNOWPLAY
A memoir in favor of the arts in public school
I pecked away all night on Dad’s clunky Underhill typewriter. The plot was so clear once everyone else had gone to bed. Although we were stranded light years from Earth, we’d use our imaginations and whatever survived our crash landing to make a home on this cold, distant planet. A final sign would say: “The Beginning,” just like on a sci fi show I’d seen. I could borrow that idea for a school play. I typed THE END, pulled the onion skin out of the typewriter, grabbed the crinkly sheets and stuffed them into my brown leather bookbag. I’d look them over on the long bus ride to school tomorrow. But it was already tomorrow— 4 AM.
Next thing I know, bright sun reflecting off yesterday’s snow was streaming on my face. I gazed over at my younger sister Joan, still asleep. It was late. I burst out of the room “Mom, I missed the bus!” Down the hall I saw a flutter of sheets and mom’s flowered nightgown. Hastily I threw on a blue cotton blouse, black watch pleated skirt, knee socks and shoes to wear inside my red rubber boots.
We met in the strategy room—the kitchen. “Your bus has come and gone and I have to get sleepyhead ready before she misses hers. I’ll think of something,” mom muttered, stirring hot cereal to perfect creamy lumpiness.
I looked forlornly at the script sticking out of my bookbag. Dad had left in the family Chevy when it was still dark. It wouldn’t be so bad if Joanie missed her bus. Her school wasn’t that far, but mine was five miles away. There were so many kids in my grade that our town had trouble keeping up with us. I’d gone to a different school every year. This year, school was in an old building with a big stage where we entertained each other with skits at lunchtime. Today my friends were going to read my play. How could I let them down?
While I ate breakfast, Mom and Joanie bundled up for their walk to the bus stop. On her way back, mom opened the aluminum milk box outside the kitchen door. “Funny, the empties are still here. The milkman’s late, too.” We both hit on the idea at the same time. How ‘bout a ride to school in a milk truck? We’d ask the milkman when he showed up.
We heard the low gears of the milk truck and Mr. Perry crunching up the icy front lawn toting a wire basket with two quarts of milk. I nearly tripped opening the door as he switched full bottles for empties. Mom did the talking. He’d finish our block then drive me to school!
I stepped up into the passenger side of the milk truck. But surprise…there was no door and no seat either! This way the milkman could freely go to houses on the left or the right in one trip. Mr. Perry told me to do all the hooks on my car coat, tighten my hood and stow my bookbag. He stood at the wheel and motioned the safest place for me to stand and hold on so I wouldn’t fall out!
I braced myself when we turned onto the main road and he hit the gas. The faster we went, the more the wind howled and the more my teeth chattered. It made me think of our refrigerator—Frigidaire. Maybe that would be a good name for the cold planet in my play.
We arrived at school and even beat the bus there. I thanked Mr. Perry the best I could, thinking a smile might shatter my frozen face. He raised the furry earflaps of his hat and laughed “Anytime,” knowing full well that the best time for a ride in a refrigerated milk truck would be during summer vacation.
