Sometimes, when I tell these stories, my kids don't believe me. They think I'm old, but not that old, certainly not old enough to have the experiences I'm about to share. But it's real. I'm a 52-year-old guy who grew up in a small town in Massachusetts, about 18 miles south of Boston, in what's called the South Shore. I was born in Brockton, birthplace of Rocky Marciano and Marvin Hagler, and raised in an adjoining town, East Bridgewater, where the following things happened when it snowed:

• If the roads and sidewalks were so bad the town had to close schools for the day, we'd listen to the whistle from the local power plant at 7 a.m. Whistle meant a day off from school. No whistle meant get your butt out of bed and be in homeroom by 8 a.m. The snow whistle remained a tradition in my town long after radio and TV stations started announcing winter school closings.
• They plowed the sidewalks with a horse. Honest. Until after I went off to college -- some time in the mid-1970s -- Eddie Kenneally, a teamster from way back, hitched one of his exquisite Belgians or Percherons to a block sled with a wedge plow in front. Mr. Kenneally, who was on retainer with the town to perform this service, stood on the block, leather reins in his hands, and away they went, cutting a perfect 30-inch wide path in the sidewalks through the center of town to the elementary, junior and senior high schools. An energetic Dalmatian ran along in the snow as the horse worked. From the horse's yoke Mr. Kenneally hung a cowbell, and I'll tell you this: From up in my bedroom, early on a winter morning, I could hear not only the cowbell coming but the heavy thuds of the horse's hooves as he strutted through the overnight snowfall. When you heard those sounds -- Mr. Kenneally and his workhorse out early, cowbell clanging, hooves thudding -- you knew there would be school that day. No point in listening for the whistle.