Holding On To The Amity In Calamity

Like countless other women, I have been routinely waking up to Dr. Cy Smith.

That's "to" Dr. Cy Smith, not "with" Dr. Cy Smith.

He calls around 6 a.m. or so, wanting to discuss important issues like the weather.

As soon as I see "Mansfield Christian" flash on my caller I.D., I actually get a little giddy, knowing he has something special in store.

I picture him behind his superintendent's desk, in pressed flannel pajamas, a "Campus Wear" Insignia embroidered on his chest.

That's "on" his chest, not "in" his chest, although considering his commitment to our school, anything is possible.

His hair is perfect as usual, even at this wee hour, save one obscure cowlick at the back of the part.  His breath is fresh.

I try to answer quickly, allowing the children to sleep, sheltering my husband from the pain of knowing there is another man in my life.

"Hello, Doctor...what's new in your world?"

"This is Dr. Smith.  Today is February..."

"Of course it is, Silly.  Why so mechanical?"

"Mansfield Christian is closed."

"Don't you have anything else to share?"

"Again, Mansfield Christian is closed."

Then he simply drifts off and disconnects.

Hubby rolls over and asks, "Who in the world are you talking to?"

I whisper a reluctant confession, "Cy Smith...he calls sometimes."

"You do realize you're talking to a recording?"

"To you it's a recording.  To me, it's a personalized message."


Then he simply drifts off and disconnects.

And so the saga begins of what our state refers to as "calamity days."

We, of course, call them "snow days."  Calmaity seems like such a strong word, denoting a disaster or misfortune, especially one causing extreme havoc, distress or misery.

How can having a day off denote distress or misery?

One might even argue the term be coined "amity day," as school cancellations leave the kids with a most cordial disposition.  They want to hug you for the first time in months, make snow angels and dance with the dogs, all this even before getting out of bed.

Calamity doesn't enter their little minds, unless, of course, the roads are so bad, they can't make it to Snow Trails to ski.

Tragedy also can strike if their Facebook account is down for 30 minutes, delaying important updates, such as:  "I am bored," or as some would say, "I am board."

These children cannot afford to have calamity days, I might add.

The state has granted us a mere three calamity days, a shocking regulation that prompts one to ask:

Are these people even from Ohio?

Good gravy, with only a three-day allotment, we don't have a snowball's chance in...well, we don't stand a chance of finishing our school year before July 4.

But, there's no use griping about it.  As the kids would say, "It is what it is."

They don't know the half of it.

What it is, I fear, is Mama being one buckle short of a straight jacket.

I'm cranky.

Small things irritate me, like the children sitting on the furniture.

The dogs aren't even cute anymore; they smell and lack intelligence.

I can't bake one more cookie or watch one more movie.  And, if I lose one more game of Othello to my husband, well, someone is going to have to pay.

OK, I'm done now.  It's out of my system.

Calamity shall pass.  Amity shall prevail.

But, there is one more thing I'd like to say.

Dr. Smith, quit calling me.  It's over.  Enough already.

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