Weather We Like It or Not

The shovel is still by the door. We just might need it again. The way this winter is going, we might be shoveling out a place to put the grill for Memorial Day. 

Several more inches of snow are possible before this ends over the weekend. We already have about 18 inches on the ground. And on the car, the porch, the roof. And that's in addition to the foot that was already there. Our back yard looks like a mogul ski course. Or, being a writer, like a place where lots of bodies are buried.

But I have power, heat, food, drink. 

And an insane streak.

During the worst of the monster storm that bore down on the Eastern seaboard Thursday, David and I decided to go out for a walk. We bundled up, spent a few minutes trying to recall where the front steps were, and slid on out into our neighborhood. Yes, visibility was almost zero (ours and the cars'), the streets had been only narrowly plowed, and our township is out of salt. Did that deter us?

"Look at the big flakes," I sighed. 

David: "You mean the snow, right? Not the two idiots in the middle of the street."

But the snowplows kindly declined to use us for hood ornaments, and we walked the neighborhood. 

We're not going to be driving anytime soon anyway.

View from the porch. Note the bird bath. 

A few views of the neighborhood. That's our park, below. Snow up to the seat of the bench. 

Okay, this might be my favorite picture.

Last evening, after I finished work, I was texting with my friend Linda about what time we'd be getting up to shovel in the morning, and she said that her husband -- upon learning who she was texting -- remarked, "I wish I had some chocolate chip cookies." He is rather fond of the ones I make. I said I had everything but the chips .... and three minutes after I hit 'send', her husband -- having bounded over three-foot-drifts -- appeared at our front door with a container of them.

I must admit cookies go very well with hot buttered rum when the snow is falling. 

Sheila York
Copyright 2014

Lights Out!

The storm on Saturday knocked the power out again, three hours in the dark for us, longer for others. Some folks in North Jersey and Connecticut are still in the dark. Last month – I think it was last month – the power went out in Lambertville for three days after hurricane Irene. I haven't even restocked the freezer from that. Seems like this sort of thing just keeps happening. The worst part is not knowing how long it will be off.

But I didn't come here to complain. If we're going to lose the electricity all the time we'll just have to figure out how to get along without it gracefully, right? My great-grandmother didn't need electricity to keep house.

Well, okay, my great-grandmother had a cook and a maid. And gaslights. And a wood stove. Furthermore, if you want to know, she was sick in bed all the time, so she probably didn't care whether the lights were on or off.

As for me, I intend to fix myself up with the necessary stuff to withstand the next onslaught in comfort. I laugh at the electric company. Ha, ha. Do your worst. Here's what we'll need:

Oil for the oil lamps. Yes, we have enough oil lamps to light much of the house. Not very brightly, but hey.

A gasoline camp stove. We have a little propane camp stove, and a couple of cans of propane, but it isn't big enough to cook a decent-sized pot of pea soup.

One of those crankhandle radios. I almost got one at Radio Shack right before Irene but they only had one left and the handle was lost.

Shelf milk, sardines and vienna sausage. My mother-in-law keeps shelf milk against any eventuality. It saw her through Hurricane Katrina when thousands were starving. And drowning.

And okay, a high-end smartphone. The only people in Lambertville who seemed to know what was going on during Irene were finding it all out on their smartphones.

So there's my shopping list. Probably I'll add some more stuff to it. Next time Mother Nature rolls over the power company Harold and I will be ready. Drop by and see us. We'll be lounged up in comfort, trying to read by the light of the oil lamps. We'll share our vienna sausage with you.

Kate Gallison