Jacob Penola

As the scattered fireworks sparkled and faded, some of the explosions of color morphed into smiley face emojis, leaving ghostly smoke trails. Everyone's attention shifted downward into the murk, and we all wanted to know what the unidentified slippery thing in the goo pile was. Suddenly, one brave boy decided that he would pick up the mass of slime based on the collective peer pressure mounting. He used both hands to locate it and quickly lifted it up as if he were performing a ritual. My body jolted away reflexively, but I didn’t– or couldn't– look away. I could see a slithering outline that could only be a snake. The dangling creatures defined jawline and thin body swung like a pendulum from the gooey muck until the boy chucked it deeper into the water, and my cousin and I shrieked as it splashed.

Excited chatter about the mysterious serpent crackled, lit by flickering, spewing roman candles along the shore and the continuing fireworks in the sky, for around five minutes until the onlookers tired of the conversation. Shouldn't we all have been more concerned about the submerged broken beer bottle pieces and environmental contaminants than perceived threats from the local flora and fauna? Eventually, all of us went back into the water, except me. All of us forgot about the snake, except me. I still to this day have one thought insistently creeping back: dead or alive? Nobody knows, as snakes–and my childhood memories–drift away into the lake.

Blizzard Hunting

Jacob Penola

“You got what for your birthday?” There it was again: the same exact question that I had been asked a million times before. I rolled my eyes. I mean, is it really that weird to have parents who drive you across two state borders for the sake of experiencing a blizzard? I certainly didn’t think so. I was twelve years old. My most upbeat dreams consisted of elements that most would consider nightmarish: relaxing in the basement of a house as the roof gets blown off by a tornado, witnessing the eerie calmness of the eye of a hurricane, or being in the top floor of a building as a tsunami violently inundates the first few dozen floors. Like any other person, I wanted my dreams to come true. Unfortunately, even at twelve years old, I recognized that it would not be a reasonable birthday request to chase EF-5 tornadoes or travel across the world to witness a tsunami. So in my mind, I made a compromise. I asked my parents if for my thirteenth birthday I could drive into a blizzard with my dad. Knowing the weather was my greatest fascination, they, to the confusion of many others, approved of my request. That winter, I religiously checked the national forecast, hoping for a potent winter storm to miraculously lash the Midwest on a day that my dad and I could carelessly venture right into it. November, December, and January brought forth days upon days of false hope and grave disappointment. My young, impatient mind quickly became disheartened, thinking this birthday gift was inevitably going to become a bust. One gloomy February day, I was proven wrong. The minute I got home from my basketball tournament, I hastily opened my computer, clicked on the google search bar, tapped the ‘w’ key, and smashed my half-broken enter button. Just like any other day, I found myself staring at the National Weather Service’s hazards map. I saw that dozens of counties in Iowa, Minnesota, and Nebraska were displayed in bright red. I immediately recalled what hazard this color corresponded with. One word rapidly began ricocheting throughout my mind: BLIZZARD! My eyes widened and a mischievous smile crept across my face.

Like a toddler begging for a toy, I without pause asked my parents if my dad and I could vacation to frigid Iowa the next day. It perfectly lined up with the weekend, and it was only a mere seven hours away (not adjusting for the time zone difference, of course). My dad, despite having a myriad of legitimate excuses, nonchalantly answered with an apathetic ‘yes.’ My disappointment of losing my basketball games was subsequently drowned out by feelings of immense excitement. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe I was actually going blizzard hunting. The next afternoon, we were making our preparations for our trip. By preparations, I mean casually tossing a few blankets into the trunk of my sister's small but mighty 2008 Honda Civic. We said goodbye to my mom and brother, thinking we were fully prepared to embark on our journey. After ducking into the passenger seat, I typed in ‘Grundy County, Iowa’ into my dad’s GPS. I then opened my computer, obsessively tracking the storm like a nervous parent obsessively checking up on their child. I analyzed the latest developments, learning that blizzard conditions would persist through the next day, with some locations experiencing complete whiteout conditions. For most people, this would be scary considering we were driving right into it. For me, however, it was thrilling; my bizarre mind was giddy with excitement. Seven hours later, our black car matched the black sky of Grundy County, Iowa. The wind howled outside the windows as snow drifts slowly but steadily became impassable mountains as we traveled farther northwest. My mom had thankfully completed her preassigned homework of finding somewhere for us to sleep. Considering we were in what appeared to be The Kingdom of Corn Fields, the place that she found wasn’t all that bad. A+, Mom.

We parked as close as we could to the entrance of the motel and quickly grabbed our belongings, eagerly sprinting to the door as if we were being chased by a murderer. The sound of whistling wind was met with the sound of our laughter, creating a most pleasant noise that sung to our ears. Through the subzero temperatures, we finally reached the door. I speedily clutched the handle with my numb fingers, trying to open the door against the wind. Only with the help of my dad did the door reluctantly swing open. We trekked inside. I kicked the rug on the floor, attempting to rid myself of the matted snow that appeared to be restrained to the bottom

of my dilapidated, two-sizes-too-small sneakers. When we arrived at the front desk, the only employee working in the motel - Bill - instantly exclaimed how terrible the weather was. My dad then provided his typical Dad-explanation, tirelessly elaborating on how the weather was what lured us into Iowa. I could see the gears in Bill's brain turning, trying to come to terms with what he had just heard. He blinked. “Wait wait wait, let me get this straight. You traveled from Indianapolis, Indiana to Grundy Center, Iowa, for the blizzard?” “Yes. Yes we did.” Once we were settled into our hotel room, and only after my dad was getting ready to fall asleep, I asked if we could go out into the parking lot and play in the snow. My dad sighed and gave me a conflicted look. I persuasively raised my eyebrows and grinned. He half-heartedly smiled back. “Fine.” We skipped downstairs. As he saw a teenage boy and his father about to voluntarily exit a cozy building to go ‘play in the snow,’ Bill shot us a look not only of disapproval, but genuine concern. I stepped outside and immediately eyed a giant snow pile on the perimeter of the parking lot. I darted up the mountain and formed a snowball in my oversized gloves. I instantly fired it at my dad, only for the wind to shove the snow right back at my face. My dad scoffed at my pathetic attempt. He then formed a snowball of his own and launched it at me. Once again, the wind was my enemy; a hurricane-like wind gust amplified the already impressive throw, leaving my face stinging as the tiny ice particles pierced my skin. Through the pain and debilitating laughter, I grabbed another handful of snow and strategically positioned myself, using the wind as an aid this time. My dad agilely dodged the snowball, bringing him right back to his so-called ‘glory days.’ Unfortunately, our snowball fight soon ended as it became difficult to breathe due the fierce, brisk wind. When we got back to our room, my dad collapsed onto his bed and instantaneously fell asleep as his head hit the pillow. Trying to ignore his deafening snoring, I found myself peeking out the window. I was wonderstruck. The screaming wind and the blasting snow and the parking lot that was essentially a mountain range all took my breath away. I had been dreaming of this moment for years, and it had finally come true. I was finally in a blizzard. Next thing I knew, it was light outside. I unpleasantly woke up to a

powerful roaring noise that shook my brain inside my skull. At first, I was worried that my dad and I might be in danger, considering the magnitude of the unknown sound. But then, as I looked around the room trying to use my fuzzy eyesight to locate the source of the cacophony, I quickly realized it was nothing to fear. While my half-awake mind was anticipating a lion or something of the like to be standing next to my bed, all I saw was my dad – my snoring dad. No longer worried about the monstrous sound invading my ear canals, I stretched my arms and yawned. After a few instances of “accidentally” throwing the remote at the floor and loudly exclaiming “OOPS!” in the hope that my dad would wake up, I eventually gave in and actually turned the TV on, acknowledging there was no chance that I could interrupt his unending sleep. I flipped through the channels, eventually finding myself indulging in The Weather Channel. I learned that the storm had been dubbed Winter Storm Quiana by the news network. The meteorologists conveyed blunt warnings to the people of Iowa and southern Minnesota. Allegedly, even though the snow had stopped, rural roads would still be treacherous to drive on due to blowing snow that could cause whiteout conditions. Yeah right, I thought. How can there be whiteout conditions without falling snow? After brushing my teeth and changing my clothes, I was ready to dismally return to my safe, snug home. Even though I was disappointed the adventure was coming to an end, I knew I would treasure the previous night forever.

A century later - after my dad had finally woken up and completed his extensive morning routine - we were back in our car. Once we got on the roads, we quickly realized that this cramped vehicle would have to prove its mightiness to us. As soon as we drove away from the building, I found myself profusely apologizing to the TV meteorologists for ever doubting them; it was as if someone had spray painted our windshield white. Having lived in upstate New York for a significant period of time, my dad was an experienced winter driver. Even so, he blankly stated that this was the worst weather he’d ever driven in. Watching his knuckles progressively get whiter and whiter, I began to worry. The winds gradually picked up, exacerbating the driving conditions. At this point, looking through the windows hurt because of the pure, pervasive whiteness surrounding us. My dad found himself relying

on the sporadic ridges in the middle of the street to keep us from drifting onto the grass. “What happens if an oncoming car is doing the same thing?” I innocently asked. He didn’t answer. Oh. After about an hour, the winds had temporarily died down. We could clearly see that the upcoming road was completely submerged by snow, with several cars spun off the road, stuck in the middle of the deep snow, or entirely rolled over; it was as if the street was leading us into a warzone. My dad persisted nonetheless. As our tires began having trouble gripping the concrete, a large luxury SUV confidently cruised past us on the left. Through the windows, I could see the driver - a young guy - laughing as he looked down at our sedan persevering through the snow. This irritated me. Only a few seconds after the driver sped past us, he got stuck in the snow. Ha. Unfortunately, this feeling of schadenfreude swiftly morphed into a feeling of uneasiness as it was now our turn to get stuck. When we reached a small hill, we came to the stark realization that the car was unable to scale the wall of snow. We also realized that the car was unable to reverse out of the situation. Helplessly remaining seated in our car, we became deer in the headlights. Thankfully, heroes were living in the house right off the street; three men had seen that we had gotten stuck and promptly came out to rescue us. Almost immediately, my dad and the three men were pushing the back of our car. I panicked, realizing that my questionable decision making had left me without any shoes on my feet. Sitting in the passenger seat while four other men pushed me as if I were royalty, I felt pathetic. I hurriedly threw shoes on my feet, allowing me to haphazardly step out of the vehicle. Regrettably, I hadn’t spent the time to properly put my shoes or socks on, causing the back of my heels to be fully exposed to the blowing snow and arctic temperatures. My feet rapidly became heavy rocks attached to my legs. It was hours before I could feel my toes again. Eventually, we got the car unstuck and back onto a drivable road. When we tried to get onto the interstate, a police officer enlightened us, letting us know that the highway would remain closed until they cleared it of hundreds of abandoned vehicles. My dad shot me a look of concern. Not sure what we would do, we aimlessly drove around. Soon enough,