My son's school, P.S. 29 in Brooklyn, has already cancelled tomorrow's classes, in anticipation of tonight's snowstorm.
It's the kind of thing to make a born Midwesterner like myself shake my head and look away in embarrassment. A snow day called before the snow arrived? Pathetic. Pitiable.
When I was growing up, school was cancelled only as an absolute last resort. There had to be at least three feet of snow on the ground and the roads had be completely impassable by anything save a dog sled. Even then, school sometimes went forward, and if you couldn't find your way there through the drifts, tough! You were marked absent anyway.
Our plows were unstoppable, and hit the ground instantly and continually, creating deep snow canyons through even the most difficult and winding of country road. Often you couldn't see anything except a solid wall of white on either side of the school bus. But the driver could see the road ahead, and that's all that mattered. To hear the name of my school called out on the morning AM radio broadcast was something of a miracle.
But Brooklyn? I guess we're all collectively worried we're going to fall and break a hip or something.