Little Snow, Big Snow
Christmas Eve 1993 began just beyond the Belleville Rd. exit. Big flakes—slow, lazy clumps drifting toward the windshield. Threatening, sure, but the wipers easily pushed them aside in slushy windrows.
Keylea’s hand found mine on the seat between us. “Think you’ll get called in?”
Snow removal paid well, but only on the sky’s schedule. Plus, when it snowed, I had to go, and I stayed gone until every lot was scraped clean and thoroughly salted down. Christmas Eve or not.
The wind picked up a few exits later, hurling snow straight at us in torrents, white billowing curtains whipping across I-94—visibility down to nothing.
I checked the mirror. Sean, in his booster seat, puffy down jacket bunched up around his ears, eyes tracking landmarks out his window. Heather, a crimson velvet bow atop her golden hair, hands folded in her lap, fingers laced the way she’d learned at church.
She caught me looking.
“Big snow, little snow, Daddy,” she said with a smile. Said it singsong, like something she’d learned in school.
“Big snow, little snow.”
Keylea squeezed my hand. “Think we should turn back?”
“Big snow, little snow,” came from the backseat again.
I eased off the gas, felt the wheel go loose in my hands. Now I could barely see the taillights ahead.
We took the next exit—the 76 truck stop with the flickering sign. I pulled into the lot.
Snow hammered the hood. Wind slapped the driver’s side door.
“Okay, gang. Bathroom break,” I said.
The place smelled like burnt coffee and diesel fuel. The kids shook snow off their hats. Their boots squeaked across the tile.
Truckers ambled the aisles waiting to hear their shower numbers called over the PA. We moved through them, past the coolers, toward the restrooms.
Quick in and out: stalls, warm blower, paper towels. A shower number crackled over the PA. We cut back past the coolers.
The door sighed open to a bright blue sky. The squall had passed as quickly as it came, leaving the air sharp and the pavement steaming.
If it weren’t for the white blanketing on either side of the freeway, you wouldn’t have known it had snowed at all.
Keylea smiled. “To Grandmother’s house we go?”
And off we went.
The kids ran straight to their cousins. Coats everywhere. Boots melting against the heat register. The house smelled like ham, brown sugar, and cinnamon rolls. Someone had the Lions game on low.
We’d just settled in when Heather rushed toward me from the hallway.
“Little snow, Daddy!” She tugged at my sleeve. “It’s little snow now. Come look.”
I laughed and pulled her into my lap, but she wiggled free and insisted I follow. She dragged me by the hand to the front window and pushed the shade aside.
“See?”
Outside: tiny flakes, almost sleet, mixed so fine they looked like static. Barely visible unless you watched against the street light. But a thin glaze was already forming across the sidewalk.
Heather’s hand hovered in front of the glass, palm open, measuring the draft.
“See, Daddy? Little snow, big snow,” she said—not singsong this time.
Behind us, Mom laughed in the kitchen. My dad turned up the radio. Bing Crosby drifted through the house from behind us.
“Think it’ll stick?” I asked her.
She turned to me, exasperated, little hands on her hips. “Big snow, little snow, Daddy. Little snow, big snow.”
I laughed at her theatrics. “Honey, what does that even mean?”
She frowned like it should’ve been obvious. “Big snow doesn’t stay,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Little snow does.”
Her eyes drifted back to the storm. “Little snow goes and goes.”
Big snow, little snow. Little snow, big snow.
Then my pager. Heather didn’t flinch when it buzzed. Didn’t look disappointed. Didn’t cry.
She just lowered her hand from the glass and stepped aside so I could see the storm better, like she’d been preparing me for this moment all along.
I watched the sleet come down. Fine as salt. Piling up fast.
Heather leaned into me, her little arm around my knee.
I looked down, found her hopeful little face.
She wasn’t watching the snow anymore.
She was watching me.