I’m writing this on Wednesday morning. I’ve been up since 5:30 a.m., sitting in my office, gazing out the window watching the snow fall. It’s beautiful - awe inspiring. I’ve always loved snowstorms. I love storms in general; a psychologically significant character trait, I’m sure; but we won’t travel down that path today if you don’t mind. Truth be told, we won’t travel down that path whether you mind or not – ever! It’s my column! I’m in total control - of the column that is. Other aspects of my life are open to debate.   

I’ve loved snowstorms going back as far as my memory will take me. The storms were bigger then, more powerful; the snow whiter – or at least that’s how I remember it. Snow was fun when I was a kid. It generated a sense of wonder; the opportunity for adventure; a new way for a young boy to get in trouble with his mother, which seemed to come naturally for me.  

The first snow came early in December and it seemed that there was snow on the ground for most of the winter. The trucks from the Mansfield Highway Department would be out in full force day and night, sparks flying from their enormous, metal plows as they scraped the snow from the roads, down to bare pavement. They also used sidewalk plows that had metal tracks to propel them through the ice and snow like miniature military tanks.  At night, their engines roaring and their headlamps cutting a path through the darkness; they took on an eerie air – one that stirred the imaginations of little boys – dreams of alien spacecraft - massive metallic monsters from another galaxy. 

One of the best things that could happen to a kid was getting a snow day; those times when the whistle at the old firehouse on North Main Street would toot the happiest tune any kid could ever have hoped for – no school!  

Following the obligatory shoveling of the stairs, walkway and driveway; the fun would begin. All the kids gathered outside and chose up sides for ‘war’. Snow forts were meticulously constructed in back yards all over the neighborhood and then it was pandemonium for the rest of the day.  

Young warriors armed with meticulously crafted grenades, aka snowballs, launched carefully planned sneak attacks on their adversary’s strongholds, traversing the icy walls; pummeling the unsuspecting occupants, while those remaining behind the fortified walls of their frozen fortresses, lobbed icy spheres of destruction toward the hordes of advancing forces, in an effort to repel their stalwart attacks. This was way more fun than school! 

I stayed outside, oblivious to the cold, until my mother called me for lunch, at which time I protested vehemently, pleading that I wasn’t hungry and didn’t want to go in. It never worked. My mother was a staunch supporter of the ‘three balanced meals a day’ philosophy. Skipping a meal, even if you weren’t hungry, was never an option. Since blaming others for our personal shortcomings is in vogue these days; let it be known that I blame my mother for my constant battle with eating when I’m not hungry. Thanks a lot, mom! 

My mother and I went back and forth a few times before I realized I was up against much too formidable a foe. She was a mother; an experienced professional. A 10 year-old was no match for her. I was preparing to protest one last time when she yelled, “Robert Havey you get in this house right now!” She had called me Robert, which meant that, “Wait ‘til your father gets home,” was not far behind. She had my undivided attention.  

I reluctantly walked up the back steps and in to the back hall, took off my boots, stripped down to my underwear and sought out the warmth of the kitchen radiator; the old cast-iron, hot water type; the best, most efficient way to heat a home that I’ve ever seen. Those radiators were an amazing piece of technology; primitive, but amazing. They got so hot you could cook dinner on them. 

I stood there shivering, rubbing my hands together and soaking up the heat; the steam whistling through the valve at the bottom of the radiator and; within just a couple of minutes it felt as though an army of fire ants had invaded my body; I was all itchy. Warming up too quickly when your skin temperature is approaching frostbite status is never a good idea - unless you enjoy scratching your skin raw. 

After thawing out I ate my tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwich, got bundled up in the clothes that had been placed on the radiator to dry, threw on my boots and flew out the door to the shelter of my frozen sanctuary where I spent the rest of the day with my friends, rollicking in the freezing cold.  

You know, in all the times we spent together; in all the winters and all the snow days out of school; I can’t remember one time that any of my playmates went home early because they were cold, or because they’d rather watch television than hang out with their friends. 

Friendship was important to us; it was inherent in our being. Not that we were any better than the kids today; we didn’t even know how lucky we were to have those types of relationships; to have a friend to share the intrigue of a frigid winter’s day.  

It seems as though friendships were much more important back in those days. We valued our friends. They were important to us. They were an integral part of our lives, as cherished as family. 

We didn’t have video games or cell phones. We didn’t have computers; no Facebook, Twitter, YouTube or email. We didn’t even have TV’s in our bedrooms. We were much more fortunate than that. We had one another. 

Well, I’m going to wrap this up. It’s now 12:30 p.m. on Thursday. I had grand plans to get this written by yesterday afternoon, but the old adage, God laughs when we make plans came into play – again! 

About the time I got on a roll and the words were flowing; my daughter, Kelly called. The storm had knocked the power out at their house in West Bridgewater at 5:00 a.m. and the prospects for getting it restored before evening were minimal, so she asked if she could come to the house and hang out until the power was back on. 

“Of course. Come on over,” I said, and went back to work on my column. 

Shortly thereafter, there was a tapping on my office door. “What,” I bellowed, a bit perturbed that my work was being interrupted – again! The door swung open. It was my three-year-old grandson, Logan. 

Hi, Gampy,” he smiled. “Can you play with me?” 

“Hi, Logan,” I replied. “Sure. Just let me finish something here and I’ll be right there.” Logan smiled and shut the door. 

I’ve discovered that when you’re a writer and you work at home; no one believes you’re really working. No one! Actually, when you’re a writer, no one believes that you really work at all, but that’s another story for another time. 

I’ve told my wife over and over again that when I’m writing and my office door is shut; it’s no different than it would be if I was working in Boston on the 35th floor of the Prudential building. I’m working. I can’t be disturbed unless it’s an emergency. Apparently, her definition of what constitutes an emergency differs greatly from mine. Go figure! 

I wrapped up a few loose ends, saved my document and went out to the living room where Kelly, along with her husband, Tom and my grandson, Ethan, who’s two months old, were watching TV. Oh yes – and Junie, their Boston Terrier was there too. How could I forget Junie? Junie does two things. She sleeps and she sheds. 

Logan came running from the kitchen. “We play now, Gampy?” He asked. 

“Yup,” I smiled, “We play now,” and that’s how I ended up working today.  

Don’t get me wrong. I love playing with Logan. There’s truly nothing I’d rather do. We have a blast together. It’s just that I have deadlines and no one understands. No one cares. I’m a writer. I write for a living. It’s work – honest. It’s real work! Seriously! 

I need a snow day! 

Bob Havey is a freelance writer and a Mansfield native, currently living in Easton. His column "Take Me Back" appears every Friday at http://mansfield-ma.patch.com. His other column, The View From Here, may be seen each Tuesday at http://easton-ma.patch.com.