The predicted storm hit, leaving seven inches on the balcony, which is my official measuring site. We have a white blanket over the property and the pond, encouraging a couple of hundred ducks and geese to drop by for a handout. Unlike the metropolitan areas, the snow remains white here until it melts.
Everything seems so silent after a snowfall, as if the noises in our lives are subterranean and therefore muted by the thick ground cover. The squirrels—and even Buddy Beagle—have to add an extra bounce to clear the new topography, though Koufax doesn’t mind at all. But he is terribly difficult to see in the snow and he only turns up easily behind the evergreens.
I had planned to do a lot today, figuring I’d be a willing captive of the storm, but it’s simply too peaceful and tranquil to disturb the climatic zeitgeist. The dogs have taken up residence under my desk and I’m just daydreaming. (Comedian Steven Wright has pointed out that he would love to daydream, but he keeps getting distracted.)
Tonight we attend the annual Nutcracker, performed by the ballet on whose board both Maria and I serve. The streets and highways are fine, though I hear that we should expect a much more vigorous storm tomorrow night, to continue through Sunday, with 65 mile-per-hour winds. I’m wondering, of all things, how the Patriots can play the Jets on Sunday in an outdoor stadium up here if those conditions transpire.
I guess I have too much time on my hands if that’s my big concern. But why not? I doubt you can take serenity to an excess. I’ll look into it, and let you know.
© Alan Weiss 2007. All rights reserved.