LITTLE ROCK — Ido not believe that the prayers and wishes of my neighbors and colleagues for a “White Christmas” made any impression on whatever impenetrable mind imagines our universe. They did not bring this storm upon us by expressing-orally or on Facebook-their desire for a blanket of snow.
I know this. It is not their fault. I do not blame them. Had they all vigorously expressed dread and horror at the prospect of winter precipitation we still would have been hit by our second 100-year storm in 12 years. Had we all gathered and joined hands to silently entreat the weather event to pass us by, it would have been no use. We are not Pat Robertson, and we would have no better luck averting our fate than those hippies had when they tried to levitate the Pentagon all those years ago.
There is nothing we could have done. It was written long ago that I should be snowbound here in Hillcrest, my front yard littered with bowed and broken trees, ice sheeted on our hill and a foot of mostly untroubled snow insulating the world. It was no one’s fault.
I am trying to be philosophical here.
The truth is, we are not defeated-and in better shape than most of our neighbors. Our power has stayed on, whereas it was out for a week back in 2000. And the world is navigable, if you have warm boots and patience, and something like a ski pole to lean on. For the past decade or so we’ve relied on a wonderful product called Yaktrax to walk, with some confidence, on the ice that visits once or twice a year. According to their marketing, officials called upon to inspect bobsled runs use the product to walk up and down the icy chutes. (Last year we upgraded to something called “Stabilicers,” which seem to work as well and promise to be somewhat sturdier. We’ll see.)
The morning after the storm hit-the day after Christmas-I was able to walk to the office without much difficulty. It was slow going because the snow drifted over my ankles, but you could make the four miles or so in about an hour and 10 minutes. After the sun came out, it wasn’t even terribly cold. By the time I got to work, I’d unzipped my down jacket and removed my gloves.By 10 a.m. or so, there seemed to be reason for optimism-in sunny spots, the snow was melting. By 3 p.m., when I started my walk home, the problem wasn’t ice, snow or cold but the melted runoff sluicing down the street. My boots got soaked, and were it not for the rubber socks I’d slipped on over some cotton ones, my feet would have gone numb.
I made it home before dark. And, aside from a quick sortie to knock down icicles in the back yard-some looked mean and capable of impaling a small dog- I have not been out since. The world refroze overnight, and it is worse this morning. Now it is treacherous to walk. I do not plan on getting out until after the sun has been up awhile.
I am not one of those people who tends to gather at the window to watch storm clouds gather. I try not to expend too much energy worrying about the weather. I am careful about lightning, I check the forecasts (and I marvel at how much more accurate they have become in recent years) but I do not obsess. I am resigned to living through whatever presents itself. I try not to complain too much.
But I do not care for cold weather, and I care less for ice and snow. I do not share the stereotypical Southerner’s fascination with the stuff.
Part of that may be due to my early exposure to it-I was a pre-schooler in upstate New York, and I still remember (vaguely) being buttoned into a red snowsuit and tramping about in snowdrifts that seemed impossibly high. What I don’t remember is the first major trauma of my life-they tell me I was enjoying myself on a swing set, being pushed higher and higher by my father, when I inexplicably leaped from my seat and landed headfirst in a snowbank.
Embedded deep in that snow drift was a square shovel. I hit it with my mouth and nearly severed my tongue. Apparently there was a lot of blood and a mad rush to the emergency room. The doctors sewed my mouth together and warned my parents that my speech might be permanently impeded.
(It wasn’t-though I still have trouble with a couple of words. “Either” sometimes comes out as “eveer.” And I have to concentrate to pronounce “calvary” and “cavalry.” Mick Jagger had a similar accident as a child, to which some attribute his distinctive growl.)
But my antipathy for messy cold weather didn’t really surface until I was an adult-I liked snow days as much as any kid. They were rare where I grew up, in North Carolina, Southern California and Louisiana. In my early 30s I got plenty of experience with Chicago winters, and the Hawk Wind roaring off Lake Michigan. I remember walking from doorway to doorway, and the frigid shock that marked the intervals. I remember how we used to leave our car doors unlocked at night in case some unlucky homeless person felt the need to crawl inside for the evening. I know there are colder places, but I am content to know them in theory.
I like our generally mild winters. I like playing golf in January and temperatures in the 50s and 60s that dip a little at night. But mostly I like options.
And snow and ice and cold foreclose options. There are errands I cannot get to today, and while our house is large enough (“too large,” Karen would say) it is not so large that we will not become restless. Our terriers seem not to like the snow so much as their larger predecessors did, so we will likely leave them home when we go out to reconnoiter, to check to see if our gym has power, what restaurants have managed to open-and which of our neighbors have had worse luck than ourselves.
Our power has stayed on, and our Internet and cable television were out for only a few hours. There is a tree across the road that prevents us from driving out, but the ice on the hill would prevent that anyway.As I sit here, I can hear KUAR gurgling softly in the kitchen, I read my newspaper this morning on my iPad. I will, in a moment or two, email this column to an editor who may or may not be physically present in the newspaper office. What must be done will be done.
Karen is making coffee. Though I worry about some of my neighbors, we will be fine. I know some of you are not so fortunate, and I am sorry.
And if you were one of those who wished for a White Christmas this year, I sincerely hope that you are satisfied.
pmartin@arkansasonline.com Read more at blooddirtandangels.com
Perspective, Pages 70 on 12/30/2012