Posted by: JDM..... | February 10, 2013

Nemo’s report card…..

…..meh…the Blah-zard of 2013….

I won’t go so far as to say “Why, when I was a kid…..five miles….barefoot in the snow….etcetera”, but I can honestly say I wore my uncle’s WWII combat boots to hook rides and “ski” behind passing fuel oil trucks after a good Fifties snowstorm. While I think I always admired him for having survived Europe and the Germans, I don’t believe I ever really bestowed the kudos he deserved for having survived it all wearing those non-insulated, leaky, leather clodhoppers that I enjoyed so much.

One of my several brothers in law posted a comment today on FacePlant which reminded me of those days way-back-when, when Men were Men and Snowfall was Broom Deep, not something one swept away with a broom. He essentially awarded “Nemo”, and the maniacal media, a well deserved “Pfffft!” I concur. It was a “storm”, to be sure, but not on a scale equal to the hype. It was a Marketing Event, I’ll give it that.

It’s true, Tom, and one doesn’t have to go back to the Dark Ages to cite storms of note. The Nineties will do, for that matter. Shoveling off the garage roof was an expected chore, not headline news, even in those recent times. One year, after we shoveled off the porch roof, we just stepped off and walked down the pile stacked up against the house. Whether one blames the significant climate changes on Exxon, the Big Guy in the Sky, or the neighbor’s dog is irrelevant. Winters just aren’t what I remember, and it’s not because I’ve grown taller, because at my age, I suspect I’ve started heading in the other direction. And yet, if one pays heed to the talking heads and goiter-eyed weather forecasters, it’s time to strap on sandals and a sandwich board and to march around declaring The End is Near.

It seems as if all it takes now to trigger that incessant, migraine inducing alarm from the TV, accompanied by the faux Ticker-Tape of Impending Doom, is for it to get cloudy. The response is nothing if not “epic”, as the kids say. Home Depot and the like can’t stock enough 5,000 watt generators, and Survivalists nationwide become giddy with anticipated vindication. I thought about all of that while my wife and I munched popcorn and watched a CD of Stephen King’s The Storm of the Century in our comfortably warm living room. Meanwhile, the wind roared outside, the roof rumbled like a kettle drum (these old metal roofs are a trip), snow streaked by the windows horizontally, and my neighbor began his usual nightlong ritual of plowing and re-plowing every square centimeter of his yard. I figured I’d dig the car out and snow-blow the driveway when the sun comes back out. Or not. We don’t have any need to go anywhere until Monday.


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