The Dead, of Winter

Behold; hope has frozen over.

Hark; life has drawn her last bitter breath.

Come; bid a cold farewell to joy.

Winter wonderland has turned to icy wasteland.

Alas, it is over. Sniff.

This great and glorious Winter Sabbath has come to an end. The culmination of all things – Christmas Break across Community Unit School District #427 – ends with a whimper on this dark, frigid Sunday night.

And a faint sucking noise.

At this very moment the marrow is being drained from our children’s bones. Monday morning is a mocking specter. The Ghost of Christmas-That-Didn’t-Last.

The Christmas decorations have all been laid to rest, buried with the other boxes in the basement vault. And you, O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree, what did you ever do to deserve this? To be dressed up as if by a drunken undertaker. Then, to be stripped naked and thrown out the back door to shrink in the arctic air. You, O Christmas tree, who never gave up as much as one needle. You who drank water, God bless you, like an out-of-control diabetic. You who were at once both Frasier and fir. You who were worth all twenty-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents. Plus the tax. God rest your soul.

And, Monday morning comes, like a slow-motion winter pile up on I-90.

Sliding.

Braking.

Sliding.

Braking.

Sliding.

Breaking. There is nothing we motorists can do.

It. Is. Inevitable. Bewildered victims everywhere.

“I can’t do it. It’s too hard. It’s too-o-o hard,” moans our boy as he rises up from under his covers. A resurrection into the old life.

“But, I want to keep sleeping. Five more minutes,” pleads our girl.

We have passed over to the other side. That purgatory between Christmas and spring. Where the streets are paved with slush. Where we are robed in wet socks, post-nasal drippings, and Vicks VapoRub. Where every tribe and tongue and nation clears their strep throats and croaks their winter croak:

“Who will deliver us? From whence does our help come?”

Draw near, St. Casimir Pulaski – whoever you are – with your curious Monday holiday. Save us! We need you now more than ever. Mount up one more revolution. Make war against this darkness. Against the oppressive Superintendent of Schools and his minions. Dethrone him for one more day.

(And, if it is not too much to ask, a snow day on the preceding Friday. Or the following Tuesday.)

Lord, hear our prayers. Amen. And, amen.

Author’s note: In northern Illinois school kids get Casimir Pulaski Day off. No one here knows who he was. In my hometown of Stevens Point, Wisconsin, there is a statue of Casimir Pulaski. Kids don’t get the day off there.

Kyle White is an occasional Peninsula Pulse contributor. His book Wisconsin River of Grace was recently released by Cornerstone Press. Pining for Wisconsin, White resides in northern Illinois with his wife and children. His book can be purchased at http://www.kyleLwhite.blogspot.com.