I love big snowstorms in the same way many New Englanders, in the middle of January, “love hot weather”: it’s great until it actually arrives in full force. Bare grass and temperatures more suited to cherry blossom season in DC than wintertime in Boston isn’t my cup of tea, so instead of wishing for two inches to fall to make everything pretty, I root for a major snow event to come my way just so I can prove that winter weather can’t lay a glove on me. And then, inevitably, the blizzard arrives in an instant like a stomach bug, and I find myself shoveling instead of packing for Puerto Rico.
Shoveling is OK to a point, but when upwards of two feet of snow falls and your yard is barely large enough for earthworms to stretch out, the task quickly becomes tedious. The snow doesn’t just get dug from here and placed a foot away; it must be either thrown the way men of old would toss kegs of beer into horse-drawn carriages, or picked up and carried fifteen steps away, where there is a little more room on the snow bank. And that’s just to clear out the sidewalk and driveway. Getting from the back door to the road or driveway requires shoveling 12-inch-wide paths through the snow.
But I love snowstorms. Just ask me again in 2015, when it’s been two years since the last one.