I’m often struck, reading news stories about snow storms and blizzards and such hitting other parts of the country, by something approaching jealousy — a sense of that weather sounds exciting, I wish we had snow. It’s as if there’s part of my brain that hears the word “snow” or “blizzard” and immediately falls into a drift of romanticized imagery where it’s cold and white outside, yet still friendly and welcoming, and people go out and build snowmen before coming back in to drink hot chocolate.
The reality, I know, is very different. Since moving to Portland, I’ve been through a couple of genuine snowstorms which are exciting and beautiful at the time, but bring all manner of problems (Better hope that you’ve stocked up, because you’re really not going to want to get groceries during that kinda thing). It always ends with the snow melting, and just days of slush and greyness outside, the thing I always forget. One of these days, I’ll remember the downsides instead of just being jealous about the postcard version of things in my head.