Providential Blizzard
Op-ed Letter, Providence Journal, January 12, 2011
The plows are out, some with “Facilities Management” stenciled on their cab doors, and others unmarked, with independent contractors in their pickup trucks, cockeyed blades akimbo. The doorbell rings and unfamiliar, often Hispanic or Black faces appear at the kitchen door, going house to house on foot, asking “Do you want to be shoveled out? “We’re all set, thank you,” I tell them, feeling apologetic, admiring their enterprise. Few others are astir.
Walls of snow pushed off to the sides of the primary streets create hurdles, small mountains to surmount on my XC, ‘cross city’ skis. Approving smiles tell me that people find this activity novel and amusing. Having done this for many years, I know it is a wonderful way to witness the urban landscape. The temperature hovers around 32 degrees. I notice how this snow bears more resemblance to a March, spring snow, both wet and heavy, than the first one of the New Year.
Branches lie broken, littering the sidewalks. Many more are bent double, stuck. When the temperature drops later on and the northwest wind kicks in, a lot of them will snap. This is the type of storm where families lose electricity when power lines fall down. A street parking ban mandates staying home for most, except for those people curiously labeled “non-essential personnel.” It is a found day, one for keeping ecstatic children out of school and their parents in their pyjamas, warm and safe at home, together. Let no one brood upon lost production and cancelled appointments, but, rather, let us view it as a day overflowing with generosity, a boon for domestic bonding. I stop and talk with old neighbors, asking if everything is all right. “What do you need? Can I help?” These are the days we remember fondly from childhood, the snow clean and white for a day. It will not last, and if it did, distinct, pristine memory would likely blur into a bland continuum instead. Actually, this is precisely what happens as we age, as survivors who have encountered a multitude of storms, like trees laden with a heavy load, more flexible than we imagined.
The plows are out, some with “Facilities Management” stenciled on their cab doors, and others unmarked, with independent contractors in their pickup trucks, cockeyed blades akimbo. The doorbell rings and unfamiliar, often Hispanic or Black faces appear at the kitchen door, going house to house on foot, asking “Do you want to be shoveled out? “We’re all set, thank you,” I tell them, feeling apologetic, admiring their enterprise. Few others are astir.
Walls of snow pushed off to the sides of the primary streets create hurdles, small mountains to surmount on my XC, ‘cross city’ skis. Approving smiles tell me that people find this activity novel and amusing. Having done this for many years, I know it is a wonderful way to witness the urban landscape. The temperature hovers around 32 degrees. I notice how this snow bears more resemblance to a March, spring snow, both wet and heavy, than the first one of the New Year.
Branches lie broken, littering the sidewalks. Many more are bent double, stuck. When the temperature drops later on and the northwest wind kicks in, a lot of them will snap. This is the type of storm where families lose electricity when power lines fall down. A street parking ban mandates staying home for most, except for those people curiously labeled “non-essential personnel.” It is a found day, one for keeping ecstatic children out of school and their parents in their pyjamas, warm and safe at home, together. Let no one brood upon lost production and cancelled appointments, but, rather, let us view it as a day overflowing with generosity, a boon for domestic bonding. I stop and talk with old neighbors, asking if everything is all right. “What do you need? Can I help?” These are the days we remember fondly from childhood, the snow clean and white for a day. It will not last, and if it did, distinct, pristine memory would likely blur into a bland continuum instead. Actually, this is precisely what happens as we age, as survivors who have encountered a multitude of storms, like trees laden with a heavy load, more flexible than we imagined.
posted by Stonechuck at 6:09 PM
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