It was a bitterly cold mid-January day on the southeastern tip of Lake Michigan. These weeks were the worst for the region–especially the children who lived there. While the outdoors were considered to be every kid’s playground, these lightless weeks proved to not be very beneficial area. The sky was filled with clouds whose shadows blocked the sun and made the area a cold shade of grey as if nobody were supposed to enjoy the hidden beauty of the atmosphere. The beautiful, fresh, green grass that the mothers had worked endlessly on was now dead for the remainder of the year. The trees were leafless and the branches were dead. The snow was the turning point during this time of the year. When it fell, nature was awakened with new life. The sun reflected off the new white land, the dead grass was covered with powder, the aching trees were gorgeous again. The snow was weird around this time; it would fall in late December (which had turned to grey slush from the cars at this point), stop during this desolate month, and pick back up again around the turn of the month. Everyone, parents and children alike, waited for the snow to fall.
Charlie was one of these kids who woke up thinking of the snow. The first thing he would do was fumble his hand around until he found his worn down, bronze-rimmed glasses and put them on. Next, he would run towards his window in his long johns, fully awakening on the way. With his hair in a mess, the young boy would press his hands firmly against the already fingerprinted cold, frosty glass, and stare out hoping for something better than the day before. Whether he was satisfied or not, he still would watch through the window after scanning the area. He would keep his hands and face pressed against the glass until his vision was blurred to the point where he was able to see only beyond a few feet, and then he would step away and say to himself in a distraught yet hopeful tone, “maybe tomorrow.”
This particular morning Charlie was slow to get ready. The weather was changing around him and when he went to sleep the previous night, he had a certain feeling only comparable to excitement about what he hoped would happen. When it did not, the day was ruined. Well, ruined in the sense of a 10 year old which really only meant a few more hours. He took his time though this morning, grabbing his shirt off the hanger and dragging his feet to his bed to lay it down. Then, he would do the exact same for his pants, socks, and underwear, all while being reminded by his mother that he could not miss the bus. Finally, after what seemed to be the longest morning ever, she laid eyes on her son walking down the flight of grey-carpeted stairs. “This is why I should still dress him,” she thought to herself after noticing his uncombed hair, he clip-on tie falling off, his buttoned shirt lacking parallelism, and his new shoes untied. She knew her son had a rough morning, so she politely fixed his sloppiness for him and sent him outside. This time of the year truly did alter the demeanor of the youth.
The bus was something that Charlie actually enjoyed. He did not mind the moldy smell that came from the heater or the bus driver who hated him or the lack of comfort in the seats; when the doors of that big, outdated, yellow Blue Bird bus, opened and he stepped in, he knew that everyone understood. The reason for this was because everyone on that bus went through exactly what he went through the night before. He knew he was not the only person hobbling over to his window earlier that morning, he knew that he was not the only one let down, he knew that every kid on his block, every kid in his class, had the same routine as he had this morning.
While Charlie felt that everyone would be depressed and not very talkative today, he was wrong. When he entered that giant clump of metal, everyone was happy and excited. He went to the same rickety seat he sits at everyday and he best friend Andrew was waiting for him.
“Why is everyone so happy?” Charlie asked.
“Didn’t your mom tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“The snow storm coming, it is supposed to be huge! The biggest one since the one that happened in 56.”
And with that, the mood was instantly changed. Charlie went through the day being happy and excited for what was in store that night. When he got home, he rushed to talk to his mom about it and she validated it for him. With so much on his mind, Charlie didn’t really know what to do. He debated about going outside to play with his friends, but then remembered that the weather was so terrible that it in no way could make him happier. He had already done his homework and so it had seemed like he was in a stalemate. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the outdated Zenith radio that was usually off limits to him as well as all the other young kids. Knowing that information about the storm would be transmitted, he ran to his mom and asked, “Mom, would it be ok that just this one time I turn on the radio and listen for updates on the storm?” After actually thinking about it and giving off the notion she was going to say no, she saw the dread in his eye and caved, “Just this one time honey.”
Charlie ran to the old wooden table where the large rectangle radio sat, and turned the black knobs until the static was cut down to the best of his ability. He knew now, that it was a waiting game; he couldn’t control when the broadcasters were going to talk about it, and he was content with that. Luckily for him, it didn’t take long. He had been gazing over the different shades of brown in the wood as if reading a book left to right when suddenly a man’s voice broke over the static saying, “Hi, I’m Bill Wellington the Weather Man out of South Bend, and you all better get your shovels ready, we are in for a blizzard!” The words he just heard were enough, he was now full of energy and he showed it. He got up from the living room and ran to the kitchen to tell his mom who had been secretly listening. She was as excited as he.
An hour later, when his mom was telling him to go wash his face and brush his teeth and all those other little nit picky things you have to do before you go to bed, the energy had not worn off whatsoever. As he was brushing his teeth, all he could think about was the snow and how much fun he would have in it the next day. As he was washing his face, all he could imagine was that first snowball hitting his face having the same effect that the water splashing on his face had. He went to kiss his mother goodnight and she said to him, “honey, don’t get your hopes up.” But, he and his mother both knew that they were as high as they could be. He ran to his bed, and even though he was in no mood to sleep, he shut his eyes as tight as he could because Charlie knew that the sooner he was asleep, the earlier he could see the snow.
It finally came, and this time he was not dreaming. Charlie’s eyes opened, his ceiling was a blur until he put his glasses on. He was so confident it would be there, he even took time to stretch he arms and legs as if he was a full-grown cat. Then, he tore back the blanket and ran to the same window that had brought him much disappointment in the weeks before. This time, he did not even stay long enough for the window to fog because of his breath or for his nose to run. He looked, he blinked for reassurance, and he walked away as every other child in his town did that morning.
Charlie said to himself, “Well maybe tomorrow.”
Anticipation - a tale as old as time. The author creatively depicts the almost Christmas-morning like giddiness with which a young boy wakes up to the first morning after the biggest snow of the season. The only problem here is that, as usual, the weather man is wrong and misjudges when the next snow will be. The lesson here is clear; life goes on. The reader finds himself inside a school bus among other ten-year-olds all hoping for a snow day, for change. The rumors of something new start and the excitement builds up, quickly, and culminates in the deciding moment every morning behind the window, staring outward, always ready for something new. The author’s use of repetition in the scene and emotions of the young boy, Charlie, throughout his morning routine stands out as a symbol for the “daily grind”. The clear conflict, the lack of originality or creativity in the young boy’s environment, tries day after day to knock him down, but he refuses to submit. The weather, turning bleaker and bleaker as the days pass, mirrors Charlie’s feelings of being stuck and his lack of motivation. In his young naivete, Charlie allows himself to be fully engulfed in the idea of change as every young child did, much like as members of society embrace different movements, only to be let down when the idea doesn’t quite become a reality. Charlie is forced to live another day, patiently waiting to get himself out of the daily grind, remembering only one thing - life goes on.
ReplyDeleteIn Anonymous’ “Anticipation” the innocent hope of a young boy is soon met by disappointment as the “biggest snow storm since ‘56” fails to arrive. The style of “Anticipation” is one big snowball: an avalanche of figurative language, emotions and the underlying theme of a child’s ability to brush off the setbacks and still have hope the next morning. The principal character, Charlie, is an easily relatable, rough and tumble kind of boy that guides us, in his “bronze-rimmed glasses” and “long johns”, throughout his day, letting us feel his anticipation for the snowstorm through the “aching trees” and across the “powdered dead grass.” Writing with bouncing poise and anticipatorily transitioning into a somewhat disheartening ending, the only comfort Anonymous leaves us with is the prospect that “well, maybe tomorrow.”
ReplyDelete