Right before I left home to come back to Dartmouth for winter term, it snowed in the city (New York City, that is, for all of you who have deluded yourselves into thinking that "the city" means anything else). And it's a good thing it snowed, because for the five days prior to the event (which, for the rest of this vignette, shall be known by its formal name THE STORM OF THE CENTURY), the news was chock-full of snow-related news and commentary.
I am almost 100 percent sure that all sorts of interesting and important things happened all around the world in the week following Christmas, but I wouldn't know about any of them. All I heard about -- at 5, at 6, at 11, even during non-news hours -- was THE STORM OF THE CENTURY. No mere dusting, this STORM (as it prefers to be called), was gearing up to dump anywhere from 10-12 inches on the ill-prepared urbanites.
Something happens to the usually well-composed New Yorkers when they hear about the prospect of snow. All of a sudden, people in the city, or in the vicinity of the city, start acting like characters from one of those freaky Ray Bradbury stories, where everyone stands around waiting for the mother-ship to come take them back to their real planet.
THE STORM was on course to hit on a Saturday. I was on the phone with one of my friends, discussing what we were doing Friday night, when my parents, having been adequately brainwashed by regional news casters, decided to intervene:
"Linda, why are you making plans for Friday? It's going to SNOW! There is going be a STORM."
I feebly attempted to point out that the snow was scheduled to hit on Saturday, and was promptly rewarded by my father, who delivered a 20-minute soliloquy on the impending doomsday. After sternly informing me that "General" Rudy Giuliani was "preparing to deploy his entire fleet of snow-plows," my dad asked me if I wouldn't mind going to the store to buy a few "provisions" for the weekend. Snow is apparently an excuse for my dad to break out his military vocab.
A few things turned out to be enough food to feed a small island nation, and when I got to the store I discovered that my father was not the only one who decided that one family can never really have enough frozen pizza. There is nothing worse than a store filled with New Yorkers who anticipate being snowed in. I think I saw my third-grade teacher buried under some cans of Spaghetti-O's, but I can't be sure; I was too busy wrestling my way towards the last items on my list: rice cakes and bullion cubes. Don't ask.
When I woke up on Saturday morning and saw that the much-anticipated Armageddon had, in fact, arrived, I was stuck by a horrifying realization. Being at home meant that I was merely a source of cheap labor for my parents. They were positively giddy that they could relax by a crackling fire and enjoy the snowy day while their able-bodied daughter was left to fend for herself and battle the elements with her only weapon being a shoddy piece of plastic attached to a long stick.
As I trudged out for my third bout of shoveling, I found myself with a new appreciation for the humble little state of New Hampshire, which gets its ass kicked on an almost-daily basis during the winter, and still emerges victorious.
I also missed Dartmouth more than I ever have. I may -- ok, I do -- bitch about winter, but when it snows here, it has just about nothing to do with me. I don't have to worry about getting it out of the way, I don't have to worry about battling masses of hysterical people who deplete regional food supplies. I don't have to worry about a thing. Now if Hanover would just get a subway system, and some stuff to do past midnight, I'd be in paradise.
