They said it was going to snow on Friday. For the nearly 8 years we've lived here, they've often said it was going to snow. At the mention of it, the groceries become crowded, the schools shut down and hysteria rules the roads as people race home. More often than not, the poor weather workers are wrong. We've had the occasional dusting; I think one year we even got a couple inches - enough to race to the park, sled a few times and roll around before it all turned to slush and mud.
So, the Friday forecast was laughable - 4 to 10 inches. I'll believe it when I believe it, I said to Nicole as I left for work. By mid-morning, I think I started to believe it.
For a kid from Colorado, watching a good old winter storm unwind and unleash made me smile and think back to late nights staring out windows, wondering if it would be enough to make the School Officials give us a break. For many of my co-workers and patients at the hospital, it was simultaneously mesmerizing and terrifying. People kept talking about the Blizzard of '96, when the town shut down for a week and havoc was king.
The kid from Colorado, I realize 11 inches later, was surrounded by flat roads, underground utilities and an armada of strong trucks with enormous blades to clear the way. Around these parts, the power lines run under trees, there's not a flat road to be found and I can count the number of snow trucks the county owns on three fingers.
Unlike many, many, many people throughout the region (including my parents' house and my brother's house) we never lost power. I think now, three days later, the weary utility pros are still picking up the pieces. Our little wood stove has burned steadily through the days. We have eaten well and enjoyed the quiet unique to fresh snow. We were able to pack the entirety of our family, and a couple more, into our tiny house for a meatloaf bonanza last night. We don't understand our lot in life, but we are thankful.