A foot of snow fell yesterday. I love a good blizzard. The old people rush hysterically to the supermarket to stock up on Campbell’s soup and crackers. The weather guys gleefully upstage Mr. Slick Anchorman. Obligations are cancelled. Everything is different. It’s like having a sickday without the runny nose.
In the city, we would emerge from our apartments and reclaim the streets. Dressed in large boots and double scarves, we walked down the center of the road. Taxis disappeared. We trudged to the nearest diner, which never closed, and exchange pleasantries with strangers.
My favorite city blizzard memory was Valentine’s Day 2003, when my husband gave me the gift of solitude. A night in a hotel by myself without a 8 month baby and a three year old wrapped around me. That night it snowed breaking all records. Nervous about getting home, I left the hotel very early. On the way to the subway, I stood right in the middle of Broadway in Times Square totally alone. The lights still flashed through the falling snow. It was the end of the world, and it was lovely.
Now that we’ve moved to the suburbs, we’re inventing new blizzard rituals. While snow fell on Saturday, we hunkered down. We painted the dining room blue/grey, made a fancy meal, and drank two bottles of wine. We left the house a couple of times today to shovel and to take pictures of the kids waist-deep in a drift, but mostly we were inside. I think blizzards in the suburbs are going to be about reclaiming our home. With a buzz.
Apt. 11d 