Snow Day, Circa 1962

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with a plush white carpet covering, three-feet deep, drifts of over six. The cars and trucks were snow-bound, and the brightness of the white snow hurt my eyes.</p><p id="c761">I could hardly keep my balance as I waded through the icy stuff, making footprints with rubber boots. I was spun tight and mummified, my arms akimbo, my legs like two stiff boards as the wind howled and roared and singed my face with an arctic burn.</p><p id="3035">I regretted leaving my warm house, but I needed to be out, even if I was the only one. There was no school and my friend was waiting three doors down, and we were going sledding on his brand-new Flexible Flyer— So I fought the harsh winter elements, ignored the weatherman’s warning, and bravely trudge

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d along with my mother’s watchful eye.</p><p id="e9ce">© 2023 <a href="https://readmedium.com/929f845a050a">Mark Tulin</a></p><p id="ed8d">Here’s another poem by Mark:</p><div id="dba7" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/inside-the-butterfly-house-8fddbafe3a86"> <div> <div> <h2>Inside the Butterfly House</h2> <div><h3>I think of my ancestors</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*0zEQ6Fmkc1uG8ajYu8B8YA.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

A childhood memory of Philly’s freezing cold

Photo of a Philadelphia winter by Mark Tulin

It was a Snow Day, and I was five. My mother made sure I was warm before sending me out into the winter freeze. I wore a pair of long Johns, a white fisherman’s sweater, insulated pants, a parka with a fur-lined hood, a woolen scarf wrapped around my face, and a pair of thick mittens hooked to my sleeves.

It was a city-wide snow emergency — everything’s frostbitten and blanketed with a plush white carpet covering, three-feet deep, drifts of over six. The cars and trucks were snow-bound, and the brightness of the white snow hurt my eyes.

I could hardly keep my balance as I waded through the icy stuff, making footprints with rubber boots. I was spun tight and mummified, my arms akimbo, my legs like two stiff boards as the wind howled and roared and singed my face with an arctic burn.

I regretted leaving my warm house, but I needed to be out, even if I was the only one. There was no school and my friend was waiting three doors down, and we were going sledding on his brand-new Flexible Flyer— So I fought the harsh winter elements, ignored the weatherman’s warning, and bravely trudged along with my mother’s watchful eye.

Here’s another poem by Mark: