The Coming of Snowpocalypse

February 1, 2011

A roaring fire and a roaring snowstorm. Along with my Master Gardener manual and a bowl of Tony’s popcorn, this could be a perfect combination. From my seat in front of the fireplace (chair moved to face the flames, feet on the mantel toasting in the heat), I can look out of the french doors and see the havoc happening.

The trees shake, the squirrel feeders – newly smeared with peanut butter and birdseed -spin frantically. Branches bend, stems slam to the earth, everything shakes and flutters. It is loud, wind flinging snow against the windows and the walls. Clumps of snow start to obliterate my view out of the doors.

Meteorologists say this will be the worst storm in 44 years, to rival the Blizzard of ’67. Rich calls me at 9 and says he doesn’t see what the fuss is about. Tony catches a flash of lightening, but I miss it.

There is a neighbor’s porch light on across the yard. Appealing to my most primordial self, it shines like a beacon of warmth and safety in the storm. I am suddenly struck with an understanding of the beauty and significance of a lighthouse – in a way I’ve never really been before.

There are no Damn Rabbits out tonight. There are no coyotes roaming. There are no woodchucks (something I saw waddle away in the darkness last week). The birds are all hunkered down, the squirrels are hiding.

The wind is so fierce that it forces the smoke out of the fireplace and I close the doors to stabilize the air flow again. Eliza lays cuddled on the couch, secure in the knowledge of a snow day tomorrow.

I head to bed late, still surrounded by the storm.


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