Descriptive essay techniques and applications

¶ … school, I wake up to hear the droning of the radio in the background. Why is my mother home? I hear her say the words "snow day." I vaguely remember last night, as my father put the shovels beside the front porch, and my parents anxiously watched the weather on the news. My father saying he hopes it's not "a big one," because he has to get to work, my mother saying that we have eggs, bread, milk and coffee and that is all we need. They did not sound afraid, so I did not feel afraid. Mostly they sounded tired, not happy or anxious at all, so I didn't feel much of anything, and went to bed.

But now, I can feel something different in the air. The usual routine has been broken, where I hurry downstairs to eat a bowl of cereal and get bundled off onto the bus, so my father can leave for work. I look outside the window. It is a blanket of blinding light; white as a piece of paper, white as the picture book I have of all of the months of the year. It is so light I have to squint, and when my eyes adjust I see that the world looks like the picture of January outside, even though it is still early December. It looks as bright as noon; it is so white, even though it is barely 7:00am. The trees are heavy with whiteness and instead of the rough winter grass, pitted and dry, there is a sheet of sheer crystal, shimmering colors.

A run downstairs. Somehow, I know that snow is special, even though I don't remember seeing such a big storm ever before in my entire life. My mother, drinking her coffee, tells me I can go back to sleep. I lie in bed for a full three minutes in my pajamas, but I'm too excited and pop back up. I tell her that I want to go out. At first she protests, says it is too cold, but my father says to let me be. My mother helps me struggle into my scratchy new Michelin-Man style snow suit, so I can 'help' my father shovel the walk for the mailperson and get his car out of the driveway. I scatter a few flicks of snow. The snow is so heavy I can barely break it with my little red shovel. It is as if the whole world has grown overnight. The snow is not light and powdery. Instead, it is heavy and has a slick sheet of ice over it. When it shatters, it shatters like glass and leads shards scatter all over. I pick the bits up even though my father tells me not to, and the brilliant, crystal fronds do not hurt my fingers. My fingers are too tightly wedged in my mittens to feel anything. I give up helping my father and fling myself onto the snow. I am so small and light as a kindergartener I don't sink all of the way through -- I am perched on top of a heap of snow.

My father heads off, inching, grudging, on the white roads. I hear a plough moan in the distance. The cars move so slowly I could swear I could run faster than their sluggish wheels. I run across the path to the house and slide on it, as the shoveled areas are beginning to ice over. My mother tells me to come in when I want to, but wait at the door so I don't track slush all over the floor. So I throw little snowballs at no one and nothing, roll big snowballs to make a faceless snowman, and begin to shape snow forts from the piles of snow. Eventually, I get cold and tired and come in for breakfast. The TV is on, filled with pictures of the snow on the news. My mother pries me out of my suit, gives me dry clothes (the new socks feel especially good) and we have hot coco together, and Blueberry Pop Tarts, a special treat which she never lets me have, except on Saturdays if I have been good.

She tells me about how when she was my age she would make snow angels. After we finish our breakfast (even she has coco and Pop Tarts) she shows me how to make snow shapes by lying down and swatting her hands, and I laugh at the silliness of seeing her, playing like a little kid. We make a snowman together, a better, taller snowman than I could make alone. She goes inside the house to get some old scarves and hats, raisins and a carrot, and now my snowman has a face, and clothes. He smiles a very lopsided smile but I am impressed at our work.

I remember the little sled I got a long time ago when there was no snow. My mom says that if we are careful, we can walk to the nearby hill and go sledding. We find the sled and head back out. My mom doesn't bother to drive because she says it's easier to walk in the snow. The sledding hill is filled with kids even littler than me, and big kids, kids almost old enough for high school who look like giants and older than I will ever become. We start at the lower, safer part of the hill, but when my mother sees that I am confident, she lets me go down a steeper part. I am proud that I do not cry or 'wipe out' like some of the other little kids.

Even when we walk back, it is still so cold that none of the snow has gotten really mushy. There are still plenty of places where I can put my boots and make a first track in the whiteness. Icicles hang down from familiar houses, making them look like ominous caverns. Trees are heavy with the whiteness to the point that they look like they are collapsing inward. My mom says that it is good we didn't lose power, because when she was a girl there was a terrible ice storm and they lost power for days. They had to eat cold canned soup and light candles.

I am cold and tired after all the sledding so we have lunch together. Hot soup, because the power is still on, and while my mom heats it up, I have another change of clothes. After grilled cheese sandwiches and soup, we play board games together. She doesn't let me win, but some of the games we play are so easy, like Candyland, I can win if I land on the right places. While she cleans the house, I watch television, since it is now late enough for cartoons to be shown on the television. I watch the programs I used to watch before I had to go to school, which feels like a million years ago. I don't have any homework or tests to worry about in kindergarten -- one reason that snow days will bring me so much bliss in the later grades -- but right now, even my few obligations for school, like learning letters and numbers, feel very far away. I look at a book, and play with some toys until I get bored and ask to go out again. My first snowsuit is dry, and I try to build a fort this time. I slide my toys, my cars and my action figures down the outside of the fort. There is a crash here and there, as the temperature has begun to eke above freezing, and some of the icicles are falling from the nearby roofs.

By the time I finish playing, my father arrives home. He says that the busy roads are clear, even though the roads near our house are still thick with snow. My mother says she will have to go to work tomorrow, and that school will probably be open -- if they call a half-day, father will stay home with me. It is getting dark, so I have one last request -- I want to take some snow inside -- "but won't it melt" says my mother. I want to put it in the freezer, so I have snow all year 'round. My father says that some people eat snow with sugar and maple syrup, but my mother says that is not sanitary, but I can keep the snow in a plastic bag, provided I do not eat it.