The Life and Times of the Drunken Rogue: Snow Day

For the continuing adventures of the Drunken Rogue, read Parts 1-4 of The Life and Times of the Drunken Rogue, by clicking here. Part Five should be posted soon, but for now enjoy this side-story to that larger tale. Yep, Joel is so pretentious his lifestory has spinoffs.

It's Wednesday afternoon in north Louisiana, and like most of the country, it's hot. It's been over a hundred degrees here everyday for a week, with the heat index (because of our pit-staining humidity) WAY over a hundred. All this heat (and the inevitable heat-induced hallucinations) have me remembering a time when we weren't drenched in sweat in this garden spot known as north Louisiana. Flash back to my Sophomore year of college. I hadn't gone to Ohio, I hadn't met Richard, or Brother Nick or Andrei, I hadn't even spent a summer selling cars, yet. It was a simpler time, some might say a better time. I don't think I'd say that, but it was a colder time.

I was spending almost all my time with the "Rick, Shaun, Walker, Amanda Gang" and had planned a trip with that crew for New Years. Walker had a college buddy that lived in Houston, a centralized location for all their extended friends. They tried to get together at least twice a year, New Year's and Fourth of July. Shaun, Rick, Amanda, Walker and I all loaded up in the Grand Am and headed to H-Town. It was a great visit, we had a party every night we were, there and our hosts couldn't have been more gracious (especially since, other than Walker, they didn't even know us). It was New Year's Eve, the night before we had planned on returning home, that the trip became really eventful.

We were enjoying New Year's Eve in our host's garage, big screen TV for watching football, margarita machines, plenty of food etc. When someone yells across the party, "Hey guys, aren't y'all from Shreveport?" We corrected him, Ruston actually, but Shreveport is close. "Well, come look what's doing in Shreveport."

The Independence Bowl, held in Shreveport, LA every year, was the game on TV, but the screen seemed to be staticy. "The connection is bad, that's all, wiggle the antenna." I suggested. "We've got cable," our host informed me. It finally started to make sense, it was snowing in Shreveport. And not just any snow, as Forest Gump might say, "Big ole fat snowflakes," and lots of them. Our whole group stood mesmerized for a few minutes watching the snow not only cover the ground, but the entire screen. It was almost impossible to see the players at times.

Now at this point, those of you from anywhere other than Louisiana are thinking to yourself, "What's the big deal? So it snowed." Well, sir, snow matters around here. Sure it's snowed in my lifetime, but the fact that I can count the number of times, ought to tell you something. Generally the best we can hope for in a winter is that one day we get a combo freezing rain/slight snowfall. The bridges get icy, thick grass gets a light white blanket, and all the schools are cancelled. Seriously, these people don't know how to drive on ice of any kind and things around here close for winter weather.

We were excited to see the snowfall, that New Year's Eve, but also dismayed that we had missed it. The chances of it staying around until we got back to Ruston the next evening were slim indeed. The next morning we woke up, loaded the car, said goodbye to our hosts, and then headed home. The whole trip we kept our eyes peeled for any sign of snow or ice, but no such luck. That is, until we got to Minden. Minden (the little town I would sell cars in just six months later) is about thirty miles from Ruston, and for the entire thirty miles, traffic was bumper to bumper. The reason was the ice had lasted. The road was indeed slick, the roadside white. From time to time, you could see kids playing on hills with make-shift sleds. Now we had to get home, right away.

We finally made it and immediately made our plans to maximize the snow day, (we dared not hope for it to last another day). We chose three spots to pounce on for sledding and snowball fights: The bridge over the railroad tracks near our favorite bar, Ponchatoulas; the hill beside the nautatorium on Tech Campus that slides onto Tech Drive; and the campus of Louisiana Technical College, on James Street.

First it was the railroad bridge. We got all bundled up (Louisianians can't handle the cold), grabbed a couple of cardboard boxes, and a trash can lid and set out. The bridge was almost completely fresh, we seemed to be the first people that had thought of sledding there (or the only ones that weren't worried about the police). We threw snowballs (or more appropriately snow bricks, the snow we get here is not quite right for packing into snow balls), we slid, slipped, and sledded down both sides of the bridge, and even made snow angels (nothing that the asphalt showing through your snow angel to put a damper on winter festivities). Eventually we grew tired of our locale (and frankly needed to melt the snow that had crept into our pants while making snow angels). We headed to Tech Campus.

I was a bit trepidatious about this, (and eventually wimped out) the hill is huge. Rick hit it first with the trash can lid and promptly lost the lid, sliding on his butt, down the hill, across the street and almost into the first floor of Mitchell Hall. Amanda, Sandra and Walker were all game, but I sat this one out, content to laugh at them busting their inexperienced butts. It was about the third round of trips down the hill when the campus police busted the party up, running us and all the other students off. So like thousands of students before us, when we were told we weren't welcome at the University, we headed to the Technical School. Of course we were only there, to sled.

The hills on Louisiana Technical College's campus (calling it a campus by the way is misleading, it's one building with like fifteen parking spots) were much milder than our previous spots, but the snow was much deeper, and fresher. This combined with the fact that there weren't any other people around (we didn't have to worry about making fools of ourselves) meant a lot more fun. Since the hills were tamer, I joined in the fun. Sliding on the cardboard, then on the trash can lid, and even on the plastic pool float, someone had bought at some point. It was a blast, when we had all sufficiently bruised our bottoms, Walker decided to bring back his military days and instigate a snowball fight, that led eventually to all of us marching through the snowpiles (amazing how much fun that is when you never get to do it). It was a night worth remembering. And that's exactly what we would have to do, remember it.

Either that next morning or one day later, the snow was all melted. Before long, we were back to normal, 60 degree days in January, and the snow was a distant memory. It's nice to break it out though every now and then. Especially on a day like today, when snowball fights seem like fantasy. It's hot, so stay cool.