City plows have made a token pass down our street, scooping out a rut the width of a sedan. It will probably be tomorrow before we’re plowed and shovelled out. For now, the neighborhood is breathtakingly beautiful. Tranquil. Pristine. No distant sounds from Route 128. Very quiet and peaceful.
My mind has taken a cue from what’s outside. I’m content to read rather than blog on the contentious and frequently sordid political world. Two feet of fresh snow with drifts against our storm doors and porch screens of three to four feet are, for now, just what the doctor ordered. Would still more snow help Washington?
I missed the blizzard of ’78. My husband and I were honeymooning in Aruba. We were on the first plane to land at Logan after the storm. It was unnaturally quiet and eerie, rather like landing on the moon. One small step for us; a giant leap for Pan Am Airways. We returned in summer clothes. The stewardess (what we called flight attendants back then) gave us blankets to wrap ourselves in. We both keep one in the trunks of our cars “just in case.” Our home had no food. (Learning from that, we are nowadays always prepared for emergencies.) By the time we returned, we had missed the communal sharing that people still talk about.
This time, we’ll see what happens when folks start to emerge from their homes. For now though, the enforced relaxation for those of us who are lucky enough to still have power and provisions, who don’t have to run the emergency vehicles, staff the hospitals, or coordinate storm response, is beautiful to behold and absorb. It will be over too soon.
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