Oh. Dear. God.
It’s going to snow!!!!! Red alert!! Red alert!!! Duck and cover!
Run right out and by a generator! Help, help, help!!!
According to the Weather Channel and CNN, this will be a “historic storm”!!!!!! The sound you hear is me, screaming in fear!
Only I’m not.
See, I’ve lived here my whole life. (I am beginning to wonder why, but that’s another post for another day.) When I was a kid, we used to have really big snowstorms all the time. I remember piles of snow that were big enough to build those awesome tunnels and caves through the snow mounds. I remember snow so deep that we’d sled down the piles that were made in front of our house.
OK, so granted I was only about 4 feet high at the time, but still.
When we moved out here to this house in Central Mass, around 25 years ago, we didn’t even call the plow guy to clear the driveway if there was less than 7 inches of snow. This week, though, the TV guys referred to an upcoming storm as “the first major storm of the season”. Everyone got all hyped up. They ran out for bread and milk. The news guys predicted power outages, wet, heavy snow, downed power lines, black ice, you name it.
We got about 6 inches of lovely fluffy snow that drifted down gently all day.
That used to be “a nice day” in January. Now it gets its own “Breaking News” coverage.
So tonight I am highly skeptical. You see, the local news, New England Cable News, the Weather Channel and CNN are all breathlessly warning “millions” of Americans about the “historic” storm that is coming to slam us. It even has a name: Winter Storm Juno.
Maybe I’d be more impressed if they had sense enough to give the big storms scarier names. Like “Bruno” or “Amazonia”. But “Juno”? I ain’t scared.
I predict that all the schools in the entire region will shut down. Offices will close. Highways will be shut down. People will panic and liquor stores will be overrun. Everyone will pull out blankets, make vats of soup, find their candles and hurricane lamps. There may even be some preemptive Monopoly games set up. We will all huddle in front of the TV, where we’ll watch highly underpaid weather people standing on the beach making breathless statements about the snow. “It’s really snowing, Mike”, they’ll tell the anchorman sitting in the nice warm studio. “It sure is snowy. Cuz of the snow falling. Wow. Really, really snowy, Mike.” They’ll squint into the camera and then bend down and pick up some snow. “This is snow”, they’ll say. “It sure is snowy.” The anchorman, Mike, will smile smugly and say, “Thanks, Chuck! You stay safe out there now!” The weatherman, trying to make two inches of snow into an actual story, will nod grimly. Inside his head, he’ll be thinking, “Fuck you, Mike, you smug asshole.”
Meanwhile, with the entire New England region completely shut down, everyone will start texting each other about Tom Brady’s balls (sorry, couldn’t resist).
And we’ll get ten inches of snow. Max.
I’m not buying the hype. Nuh, uh. No way.
Of course, I didn’t buy the hype on Feb. 5th, 1978 either. I was on my way to my college classes in a car full of fellow students (my now husband included). We heard a prediction of a major snowstorm, with up to 28 inches of snow. I laughed, and shook my head. “Nah”, I said calmly. “They just like to scare us. It won’t be anything.”
It was, of course, the famous “Blizzard of ’78”.
I got home four days later.
Happy Snowstorm, my friends! My your beer last as long as your Monopoly game!