It’s late Sunday evening, the wind sounds like a freight train racing through town, and when I glance out the front door, I cannot tell if it is still snowing or if it’s simply blowing what snow already has landed.

Scott is stranded at the farm. He tried to make the drive home, but after a mile, the pickup slammed into a drift. Thank God for cell phones and Dad, who brought a tractor to extract the vehicle.

Farmers and ranchers never get to experience snow days. Livestock need to be fed and checked, and at the Schindler farm, dairy cows need to be milked twice daily.

On evenings like this, as a youngster (and former educator), I would pray for a snow day, a reprieve from weather and obligations, time to stay inside and curl up with a fuzzy blanket and good book.

Now, news never sleeps - and it feels like I never do, either. There are no snow days in journalism. Instead, the office transitions to my dining room table. Connecting with the world is a phone call or app away.

Since we print early, due to the new year, I’m guessing I will venture to the office at some point, if I can bust through the three-foot drift accumulating on the top step of our deck.

As youngsters, snow days meant we could sleep in, although I was usually awake early, while Laurie would snooze until mid-morning. We’d help with household chores, maybe bake a batch of cookies and wait for the neighbor kids to gather outside soon after lunch.

We looked like a bunch of Stay Puft marshmallow men, bundled tightly in down-filled snow pants and jackets. Our knit gloves would turn to stiff, frozen icicles after a few minutes of play.

But, we did not care. We’d construct snow forts, plop on the ground and make snow angels, and depending on who showed up, have snowball fights.

After a couple hours of cold fun, we’d begrudgingly head inside, where cups of hot cocoa and frosted sugar cookies awaited. Days like this seemed idyllic.

By the time we reached high school, snow days trapped us in the house. Who wanted to bundle up and venture outside? Yet, there we were, assisting the parents with scooping the driveway and sidewalks. Afterward, we’d set up the Monopoly game or grab the Battleship boards and spend afternoons playing games.

One memorable snow day happened when Courtney was a fourth grader. Since school was called off the evening prior, I told the girls they could sleep in. Mid-morning, I assigned each a chore, and then promised either a baking day or playing board games.

I lit a fire in the fireplace, but I did not put the cover in front of it, and we started our assigned tasks. Courtney vacuumed the living room while Amanda dusted. Cassie straightened the mess in the dining room.

We were sitting at the dining room table when one of the girls glanced in the kitchen and noticed smoke coming from the vacuum. Apparently, an ember from the fireplace landed on the carpet and Courtney did not see it while vacuuming.

By the time I got to the kitchen, a small fire started in the bag. One of the girls opened the door and we threw the thing in a snowbank and tossed water on it.

That’s one way to put out a fire. Now I think I would take a calmer approach, like remove the cannister, dump the contents on the patio and stomp out the flames, instead of ruining a perfectly good vacuum.

It’s Monday now. Winds remain strong. The drift in front of the house is taller. My phone began ringing shortly after six, with news updates. And another day begins.

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We wish all of you a happy and blessed 2020. Follow your dreams, be courageous, and always, believe in yourself.