I don’t like it when snow is a terrible hardship to people, but when I’m safe and sound inside, I love its silence and its beauty. I’m perversely of jealous of the people who got socked by “snowmageddon” this week (it completely went south of Rochester, but it looks like we’re in line for Round 2).
At the end of March 1993 we got about 4 feet of snow in one day. Even snowshoes were impossible. It was one week after Jim broke his leg skiing, meaning it was one week after I moved into his condo (after some 15 years of happily separate abodes). We had decided to get married the previous Thanksgiving, but knew we would have to buy an ENORMOUS house to contain BOTH our independent spirits. My condo was for sale.
Then the snow came. For some reason I decided I had to shovel snow off the back deck and, in the process, started imagining shoveling the long driveway of our fantasy mansion. Oh my God — not my idea of fun. I went back in and told Jim we could make it work in his townhouse — all I needed was one room of my own and permission to redesign closet space (while he was laid up, heh-heh). Deal!
What a wonderful snowstorm. If we had bought some big beautiful house (we were not skilled enough for a fixer-upper), we would have had to take on a big mortgage and I wouldn’t have been able to retire from my job in 2003. I am so grateful to that snow.