As this never-ending day winds down, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is privy to classified information hot off the BatPhone. NO SCHOOL TOMORROW!
OK, so the information was hotter about an hour ago when I first heard it. Now everybody knows the top secret agenda. Just like WikiLeaks all over again!
The students became insufferable around 12:19 this afternoon. They had all counted unhatched chickens, and were banking on waltzing away from Newmentia at the stroke of 1:00. Where they got their information was a dicey exercise in they said/they said. It started with one mouth, and went viral at the speed of sound. I swear, there were so many lips flapping that I almost contracted a case of frostbite.
Never mind that their cries of, "We're going home at 1:00!" were met with my patented one-eyebrowed stinkeye.
"Funny, that. Nobody has told ME. Perhaps you could share with me the bearer of such glad tidings."
"Who told YOU that you're leaving at 1:00?"
"Oh. Mr. Principal, of course. He said, 'If this snow doesn't stop, we'll be going home at 1:00.' "
"Look out there. It's barely flurrying. Nothing on the sidewalks, nothing on the road, nothing on the wood chips around the trunk of that little tree. There's no reason to go home. And it's a problem to let out early this late, because nobody will know in time, and the bus can't leave the little kindergarten kids anyplace without an adult in the doorway."
"But... but... "
Of course we didn't leave school early. To look at the radar, the whole kit n' caboodle of snow showers was hiking north toward the Great Lakes, avoiding our little corner of Hillmomba like Jerry Seinfeld avoiding Poppie's pizza. Or Jerry's girlfriend avoiding the bite of apple pie he proffered on his fork.
Not only did we not leave school early, but The Pony stayed for his academic team practice. I was having none of that. All after-school activities were supposedly canceled, according to the messages left by the automated phone system. I let The Pony stay 45 minutes while I finished some work, then called to tell him that we were picking him up from Basementia. The Pony was not happy. They were in the midst of popping popcorn, in a real popcorn-popping machine. He even smelled like popcorn.
Too bad, so sad. Five miles further, and the snowflakes started to sift down again. Barely. Which was the norm all evening. The radar must have taken on a more ominous tint after supper, because now we are called off.
Maybe I will pop some popcorn for The Pony tomorrow. Real popcorn, in a pan, with oil.