Just Enough to Cancel School

Three feet of snow means one thing in Boston.

In southwest Oklahoma, we rarely got more than an inch. Usually it was sleet. Freezing rain. Roads glazed over just enough to shut the town down.

But that was enough.

I remember waking up before dawn, standing barefoot on cold hardwood, peeking through the blinds to see if the street looked different. Not buried. Just slick. Uncertain enough to cancel school.

An inch was a miracle. A shutdown was a holiday.

As a kid, interruption felt like a gift. The world paused and handed you the day.

Three feet of snow as an adult feels different.

Now you think about flights, pipes, payroll, infrastructure. You think about what breaks under pressure.

The weather hasn’t changed. The lens has.

Maybe the trick is not choosing between wonder and responsibility.

Maybe it’s remembering that once upon a time, even a quiet disruption felt like freedom.