It snowed for four straight days this past week. When it was all said and done, 14” of the natural flocking had been applied to every horizontal surface outside. Such a large accumulation has been rare in recent Philadelphia history. Last year we experienced not much more than a dusting. This year however, we have already reached our average. When they awoke the slumbering rodent on Tuesday, the prognosticator from Punxsutawney predicted six more weeks of winter. Looks like Phil was right this year. Before the coin toss in Tampa on Sunday, we are expected to pick up an additional 7 inches of snow. My back has not even had the opportunity to heal after last week’s excavation of the driveway.
As a kid growing up in northeast Ohio, the mere sight of snowflakes would set me off, running around the house in a snow-induced frenzy. The only thing better than Christmas was a snow day from school. The impromptu holiday would be announced over our black and white TV by none other than Dick Goddard, a Cleveland icon and the holder of the Guinness World record for longest weather forecasting career. After dressing each of us kids to look just like Randy from A Christmas Story, my mother would release us into the winter wonderland to spend the day throwing snow balls, building forts and meeting up with all of my school mates at the sledding hill. Had it not been for the street lights indicating it was time to trudge home, we would have continued until found the next day, lying exhausted in a snow drift.
Unfortunately I no longer embrace snow with the same enthusiasm of my youth. When the snow finally stopped this past Tuesday, I found our mailbox lying on the sidewalk, 15 feet from where the empty post was now standing at a 45 degree angle from its pre-storm position. Had it not been for the 3 inches of frozen slush plastered to the side of the postmaster generals approved receptacle, I would have thought that someone bombed it. By the time that I retrieved a shovel to start digging out from the snowmageddon, PennDOT’s finest snow plow came back for another strafing. This time I was the apparent target, as the truck detonated a wall of brined slush directly at me. After spitting the gritty, saline solution from my mouth, I ran into the street to provide the quickly retreating attacker with a middle finger salute.
It’s amazing that as I get older, my perspective on things change. I once hated Brussel sprouts, now can’t get enough of them. Jazz was once for old people. Now my music collection includes Dave Brubeck, Astrud Gilberto and Paul Desmond. Just like the gray hairs that appear with increasing frequency at my temples, I know that there is no sense in fighting the inevitable. It is not a losing battle, it is about embracing change as I age. It is my only hope that I will be able to embrace this mature attitude when I am standing at the end of my driveway Monday morning, armed with my snow shovel, and staring eye-to-eye with my snow plowing attacker.
