We wake up to white—covering our yard, and her car,
and our street. Barely two inches, but still the first real accumulation this
city has seen in nearly two years. It has taken over my Facebook feed—photos taken
through windows, from the comfort of the indoors; photos taken in front yards,
from the chill of the outdoors; photos of my friends playing in the snow,
sliding in it, building in it; photos of
snowballs, midair, just as they're about to hit the person taking the picture. The
word “Snowpocalypse” is used far too many times. The entire experience is wonderful and
exciting and almost perfect, except it’s Sunday, and I already don’t work on
Sunday.
We need groceries, but don’t
dare to drive, not that I don’t trust my skills in the wintery weather, but because
I don’t trust the other cars on the road. So we bundle up, two pairs of socks,
winter gloves, winter hats, winter jackets that haven’t been worn in years.
Mine is covered in cat hair and mildew. Katelin’s still has a snowboarding tag
from when she was a teenager. We walk down the sidewalk, into the wind. Cars
crawl by, some sliding, fishtailing, others with chains on their tires, causing
grinding, crunching, jangling sounds against the pavement below. The parking
lot’s half empty. Cars are stuck in place, their tires spinning, their drivers
flooring the gas pedal, with the misunderstanding that speed means traction.
When we return home, I
change my clothes. I lace up my running shoes. I head for the mountain. When I
reach the top of Tabor, I stop for a while, to watch the park-goers play. The
hill is high and steep and would be perfect for sledding—if it only had any
snow on it. But it doesn’t matter. They sled anyway. Fast, down frozen grass
and dirt. At the bottom is a bump, more like a ramp, about the size of a
basketball cut in half, like the gutter of a bowling lane flipped upside down. There
is no way to avoid it. I watch a teenager hit it full speed, lose his plastic
sled, and hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. It can’t feel much different
than landing on concrete. He lies motionless on the frozen earth for a minute
before one of his friends drags him to the side. This stops nobody from
following his lead. Kids slide down on toboggans; teenagers on inflatable
tubes; adults on plastic garbage can lids. They all get air. They all land
safely. Until…
Two men in their
late-teens, maybe early-twenties, create their own unique tandem experience. One
man is kneeling on a knee board. His friend is above/behind him on a pair of
skis. They sail down the hill, they hit the inversed gutter, the spectators hold
their collective breaths, they gain air, they somehow stick the landing, but
they’re going too fast, they have little to no control, they’re heading straight
toward a stationary bench, and just as they’re about to crash into it, they shift
their bodies to the right, turning ever so slightly, and instead of hitting the
bench, they take out a middle-aged man who was looking the other way.
A group of people show up
with a kayak and I want to stay and watch another disaster, but it has started raining,
and I’m getting wet and growing cold. I run home, back down the hill, careful
not to bite it. By the time I reach my house, the ground is slick, the roads
frozen. I can barely walk without slipping. I shower, curl up under blankets on
the couch. My curtains open, I watch out the window, as cars rush by, as they
slip, as they slide, as they fishtail, traveling much too fast. I watch, as a
few minutes later, an ambulance crawls by, as slow as a snail, its lights flashing,
its sirens screaming.
I wake the next morning to
a frozen city—the entire region little more than a giant skate rink. Everything
is shut down—schools, the government, my work. My work! The ever-elusive snow day.
From the comfort of my living room, I turn on the local news. It’s the best show
on television—clips of vehicles sliding out of control, crashing into each
other like bumper cars, like an episode of America’s
Funniest Home Videos. I watch the frozen city as I eat hot food, thankful
that I walked to the store yesterday.
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