Why, the last time it snowed this hard, I had been in 5th grade and John Platt had been spending the night. Boys do not have slumber parties, or at least as far as I know boys in St. Charles Missouri in1979 do not have slumber parties. Boys come over and spend the night, one boy, one night. Most boys do not have slumber parties in St. Charles in 1979, just John Platt, John over for one night, and it snowed, my God did it snow. Four feet high by the side of the house, I know this for a fact, I took the yardstick out and it disappeared in the drift, tall enough to kill a man, tall enough to kill a boy, a 5th grade boy in St. Charles in 1979.

Snow? You'd never seen this kind of snow. The plows came and pushed it all into our yard and the piles were five feet high, taller than my head, deep and compact and hard. John Platt and I took a shovel and we carved out the middle of one of those piles, like it was a pumpkin, scoop scoop scoop until we had ourselves an honest-to-God igloo, that's right, an igloo, coolest thing you ever did see, fit two people inside, it was cold, damn cold, but cold was okay when you had your own house, your own goddamned icehouse right at the edge of the driveway.

Snow? We thought it'd never stop. 36 inches, 36 straight inches of snow that winter, 1979, St. Charles Missouri, schools closed for a week, dad off work for a week, everything and everyone trapped in their homes like it's Little House on the Fucking Prairie. John Platt was supposed to spend one night. He spent five nights. I was very happy. His parents were also very happy. John Platt and I played Dungeons and Dragons for twelve hours straight one day. It was the coolest. We even let my brother play even though he didn't know what the hell he was doing. I was a half-Elf Chaotic Good Magic-User. My brother was a half-Ogre Chaotic Evil Fighter, glimpses of the metalhead he was to become just a few short years later, 1979, St. Charles Missouri, spiritual home of Van Halen and Styx and Rush, not the suck Rush but the 2112, Today's Tom Sawyer, Exit Stage Right Rush. We played for twelve hours straight, mom in with the lunch and then in with the dinner. My brother had four hit points left when we finished the dungeon. I had one hit point left when we finished the dungeon. Lucky? I had the luck of the Irish that week. My parents had the patience of Job that week, the week of the storm, the Great and Powerful Storm, back before local news stations wrote theme music for disasters, back before disasters had to have their own catchphrase and logo, snow? It snowed like the ninth circle of Hell that winter, 1979, St. Charles Missouri. John Platt and I and my brother sledded for eight hours straight one day. John Platt and I and my brother and every single person under the age of eighteen sledded for eight hours straight one day, hole 14, it was always hole 14 because that was the steepest one of the entire golf course, hole 14, you could feel the wind whip by your face on the way down like a car race, hole 14, the older kids would bring buckets of water and form ice slides all the way down, 35 miles an hour you'd hit, I shit you not, 35 miles and hour and the only thing between your ass and disaster was a ten dollar saucer of plastic with handles that had broken off a day after you bought the goddamned thing. Snow? My God did it snow that year, so much snow you'd keep sledding right down to the creek and you'd have to jump off your sled ten feet before, five feet before, two feet before, my brother, eight years old and scared to jump, right into the creek, soaked from head to toe, crying like a grieving mother as we walked him home, hypothermia settling in, chilled to the bone for two days straight, snow? My God, you've never seen snow like this.

Today is January 4, 1999. My name is Jason Pettus and I am 29 years old. I live in the Lakeview neighborhood of Chicago Illinois, County of Cook, USA, and it snowed this week. 21.6 inches. Second biggest storm this century. Drifts five feet high around my dumpster at the back of my building. Cars literally covered in their own igloos of pure ice. Snow? You've never seen such snow. My friends ask me to go frolic in the snow with them. I say boys in 1999 in Chicago Illinois do not frolic in the snow. 29 year old boys in 1999 in Chicago Illinois who smoke a pack a day and whose boots are a half-size too small and who don't own a dog or a kid do not frolic in the snow. They stay in their apartment and watch a lot of TV and do a lot of drugs. They trudge their ass to work at seven in the morning and silently resent the customers who have forced them to be there. They ride on half-frozen trains to meet their friends in bars and hope they get there before they get frostbite. They pick up the phone three times a day to call you just to see how you're doing, then put the phone back down because they know you don't want to hear from them. 29 year old boys in 1999 in Chicago Illinois sleep. They sleep a lot. Eleven hours a day. And they dream. They dream of igloos. They dream of Dungeons and Dragons. And they dream of hot pieces of plastic gliding 35 miles an hour down hole 14.