Yesterday we got over 17 inches of snow. We'd already gotten a fairly good amount by the time I went to bed the night before, and I practically had to tear myself away from the window. Huge flakes falling, covering everything. We even had some thundersnow, which was pretty awesome. (One strike sounded like it was right on top of us.) Waking up was almost surreal--everything was white. Solid, blanketed, laden down, white. Branches touched the ground, bushes looked like twiggy cupcakes, and you couldn't see the difference between lawn and street.
Everyone in the neighborhood was home, and by 9am, stood outside with shovels and snow-blowers while the handful of smaller children chased each other around in the street. We got suited up and headed out ourselves, brushed snow off bushes and freed branches, watched the younger guys up the street try to shuffle cars in their driveway so one could get his mini-bed truck out. He barely made his way around the corner, fishtailing more than driving straight. I got my camera out and set about "exploring," then helped shovel.
Just after everyone had gotten things cleared out, the plows came down the street for the first time. They say dentists are the most hated among all professions. But I'm not sure they ever considered the plow driver. The poor guys work all hours making the streets drivable, keeping entire cities from shutting down completely, and yet every shoveler curses them for the foot-high wall of icy, compacted snow they deposit along every driveway, for blocking in cars left unwisely on the street.
All the magic of a snowday melts away the moment the street is cleared. Even with driveways and sidewalks uncovered, there is still a feeling of being cut-off, isolated like an island, hidden and detached from the ordinary, everyday world. For a few minutes before the plow, we can pretend that the world before us is new. Undiscovered. Transformed into something just beyond reality.
