Recently, with a pending Nor’easter—possibly featuring 80 MPH winds, a bomb cyclone, blizzard conditions, below freezing temperatures, and a major snowfall—I frequently tuned into the weather forecast three days before the storm hit.  I watched the computer models weave back and forth, unable to commit to either 12 or 28 inches of snow and blizzard conditions.  Only the timing was predictable: It would start late Friday night and go through late Saturday night.  I counted my chicks, and no one had to be anywhere; I didn’t have to worry about any of my crew on the road during the storm.  

The day before the snow fell, I was still checking the weather maps: Would we get 12-18 inches or 24+?  When the snow started to fall, I tuned out.  There was no real difference to me between 12 and 24 inches.  By mid-day Saturday a good eight inches was on the ground and our plow guy made his first swath through our L-shaped driveway.  Liam and I put on our snow gear. Liam is my snow-soulmate. He was going to swing and jump off into the snow, and I was going to shovel out the car so that the next plowing wouldn’t leave the little Subaru buried.  It was blustery with light snow spinning in the air.  This wasn’t a delicate snowfall; it was a blizzard.  At around 17 degrees, it was so cold the snow fell in tiny dry flakes rather than heavy wet ones.  Shoveling snow wasn’t as arduous as “shoveling snow” sounds as the snow was fluffy: good for shoveling, lousy for building a snowman.

Four-foot banks of plowed snow rimmed our drive near the car.  Liam attempted to dig a fort into the side of the snowbank.  He was able to dig out enough for his head to fit in before the roof collapsed.  Liam sprawled out on his back with his head in the second hole and invited me to join him.  I laid down next to him but outside of the head-fort.  The snow below me felt still and cool through my hooded coat and snow pants.  Despite the swirling storm above us, we were swamped in peace.  

We had 22 inches of snow in 24 hours, and every negative possible characteristic of the storm materialized somewhere in eastern Massachusetts.  A few miles from our home, coastal flooding iced streets and knocked out boardwalks.  Homes along the coast, the windiest area, lost power.  Public works in towns more tightly housed than ours struggled with snow removal. 

We could’ve been hit harder like neighboring towns, but we weren’t.  What a 22-inch snowfall means is relative: for us, fortunately, we buttoned-up and were fine.  We couldn’t go anywhere, yet I’d be hard pressed to say we were stranded.  Our reality of the storm was small compared to many others.  Yet the pipeline of information coming through the television was heightened and dramatic days before the storm hit.  And we were drawn to the “what-ifs” like a fly to a bug zapper, but on the day of the storm, while lying on the snowbank in the middle of the blizzard, we were miles from the spin.