Snow Is A Tenuous Opportunity for Happiness

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Monday:

Here we go again. The first possibility of snow of the winter and I’m circling like a spinner-top dog chasing its tail. Round, round, round — bopping in and out of weather prediction discussions online, hanging on the drip-drip from meteorologists who wax poetic about the forecasting models but with extreme caution. It’s too far in advance to know, and I grant them that.

Those models are poetry to my ears, unless they dash all hope of weather-related drama at the last minute, in which case they’re a tragedy.

This is the sad existence of a weather freak living in an area that’s in weather limbo — not much precipitation thrill of any kind. Of course, just watch. As soon as I say this, the atmosphere is going to try to prove me wrong, which is exactly why I’m writing this.

Why do I think the weather has feelings?

Tuesday:

Today, more chatter out there. There’s a big storm a comin’. Where will it slam into the hardest? Mid-Atlantic? New England?

I live in Virginia, outside of Washington D.C., but my childhood was spent in Pennsylvania, a half hour from Scranton, where Dunder Mifflin’s regional office is located, and where there’s snow — lots of it.

Back then, my siblings and I could carve into snow drifts and stand inside them. Snow was glee. That feeling never left me. Like clockwork, I can feel the annual winter emotional circus revving inside my heart over the desperate hope that this coming storm will finally deliver. It’s always this storm for each next storm.

Wednesday:

Today’s the day. The first predictions are announced. Looks like — drumroll — it’s iffy. I love where I live but it’s right on a weather line between the Shenandoah mountains and the Atlantic coast. This spot often makes for a big weather fizzle.

For the next two days, I’ll be a present-day Dorothy, the pigtailed girl from the 1939 movie The Wizard of Oz. With that wishful face looking up into the sky, longing for someplace where dreams come true, I’m going to sing to the atmosphere, “If other folks get lots of snow, why, oh why can’t I?”

While I long for a foot of snow, I’ll take six inches. Or four. I’ll take four!

On January 7, 1996, I would have taken even half an inch while my husband and I were stuck in Los Angeles. We lived in NYC and were visiting his family in California for the holidays. That year, the winter hadn’t delivered much snow yet in NY, so I’d been patiently waiting. The day before we were to fly home, all flights got canceled to the eastern seaboard. We were stranded in L.A. For days, I watched bereft as it was all the news could talk about — The Blizzard of ’96. I missed it.

Thursday:

Snow potential is slipping fast. It’s less than two days ’til launch and the models are solidifying. East of me will get rain, west will get snowplows. I’ve been here before, standing forlorn as the door closes on happiness. The reports, however, leave the door ajar by using words like probably, possible, and could. I’m not as susceptible to this as I once was.

Years ago, I was brushing my teeth in my Boston hotel room the night before the Boston Marathon. The news channels were going out of their minds with reports of a nor’easter that was slated to ruin civilization in the greater Boston area. What was I thinking, doing a marathon in the middle of it?

Months of training, the excitement of that race, the cost it took to get there — all of that combined to make it non-negotiable that I’d run the next morning through a weather Armageddon. All night I kept my fingers crossed.

But I didn’t need to. There was barely a storm, and what fell from the sky kept the runners cooled down. That day I learned weather isn’t easy to predict, but it’s easy to sell.

Friday:

The final position from Meteorology land: there’s hope for one inch of accumulation or less or none. Even this won’t last the day because the temps will turn the week’s pent-up hope into pouring rain, pouring tears.

Even with all this disappointment, I’ve readjusted my hopes according to each possibility. If not a foot of snow, then six inches, then two. Now I’m envisioning how fun it’ll be to see some flakes fall from the sky, which in truth is the most wonderful part of snow.

When things are out of my control, I’m wise to do the best with what I’ve got to work with. This storm is not a situational life-changer for me. It’s a simple opportunity for happiness and joy. But happiness doesn’t come from snow. It comes from within. So, how can I find the joy tomorrow in whatever falls from the sky?

Saturday:

Rain.

Despite the disappointment, my corner of the world isn’t facing danger or potential damage right now — whether from a storm of snow, rain, or missiles.

I should feel fortunate — and I do. We’ve been lucky.

When my kids were little, we got a few big snowstorms with over a foot of snow. Our yard has a small incline where, if you’re small enough, you can slide down on your mini snowboard and think you’re sledding, which technically you are. My kids spent most of their time playing outside in the snow in this spot. They’d go back and forth, up and down the incline, then lay on their backs, talk, and be goofy. Always in that one spot.

One day I gathered them in for lunch as the wind started to pick up. While we were watching a show on TV, a huge thud shook the house. It was a big tree from our wooded area. It fell exactly on the spot where my kids had lounged and goofed an hour earlier. I still get a jag in my stomach when I remember that.

I learned there’s snow luck, and then there’s life and death luck. I don’t confuse the two.

And maybe I won’t confuse my yearning for snow with a yearning for serious things. In truth, I don’t, but it might be good to remember that hope and wanting are for both the fun and the dire. That might put things into perspective when rain drips down my windows instead of flakes piling on.

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 Happy Winter, friends.