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        20031215   

It's snowing like a sumbitch out there..
Michael considered fate at 00:39   |   Permalink   |   Post a Comment
And it's barely mid-december. Already we're 30 inches into this years snowfall. The season isn't even here yet. Winter, if you all will recall, officially starts the 21st of december, the shortest most miserable day of the year. The only thing that would make it a more miserable day is if it were in feb because that is the most miserable month of the year (which I would normally give to march but march has st patty's day and that means beer and heck, there ain't nothing miserable about that).

The wind is howling like a banshee. Clawing at the windows and the doors and banging up against the side of the house like the big bad wolf. At least I'm no little pig. When the wind starts to really whip up over the hill from the ocean my house begins to cringe. It's an old building with cracks in the walls and cracks in the ceiling and cracks in the cracks, even. The window frames make casual attempts to connect flushly with the windows themselves but inevitably wind manages to make it's way not only around over and under the house but through it, as well. When a good Nor'easter comes barreling in off the coast the wind comes trampling up over the hill, charges straight at the standing face of the building, and smashes up against the windows like a mad bull. The glass actually bows under the pressure. Along the north side of the house, where my bedroom windows are, the wind runs along the side of the building, racing along like a team of horses out of control. The panes of glass dance around in their frames like mexican jumping beans and the wind screams softly at me.

The snow is insistent. It rides on the wind and spatters along the sills and edges and gets into everything. A thin pile of snow extends from the crack between the front door and the frame into the room. Snow pelts against the windows. The tiny flakes rake along the side of the house making the sound of a thousand little brushes painting the world white.

Snowdrifts are the rule, not the exception. Snow piles up against cars and up on porches. Natural berms get created at every street corner as if trying to stop the flood of pedestrians. Every lawn is like a bowl, with the snow collected at the edges and the middle swept out almost to bare grass.

I walked down the hill this evening. I put on my heavy sweatshirt and pulled the hood tight over my eyes to stave off the wind and I headed out into the wintery mix. I tromped through the snowbanks and down the street while a million ice warriors assaulted my back. I slipped around in my shoes and shoved my hands down into my pockets and watched the snow plow make it's way up the road. I listened to the clink clink clink of the tire chains as he rumbled by and then I walked by the oil platforms floating in the harbor. The big tower lights on them were soft and fuzzy behind the wall of snow and I could only make out the outline of the big legs extended down from the platform into the water. I turned around, into the wind, and walked back up the hill. The sailboats down at the yacht club clanked and chimed like a huge set of wind chimes - probably rope banging off the masts - but I couldn't see them down in the darkness.

When I got back up on my street my foot prints were gone. The snow had piled into the driveway and made random fractal-like patterns of snow drifts swirling out from the center of the pavement. Where once there was a cleared off set of steps up to the porch there was now a staggered set of snow levels tappering off on either end so you could see the woodsticking out.

It's still snowing out there and looks to keep on keeping on. The public landing parking lot down the hill is filled up with cars from the neighbourhood trying to avoid the parking ban tonight. The wind is still howling - shrieking, even, like a crazed tea kettle. The cold is creeping in through the walls and everywhere else and ice crystals are painting odd artwork on the glass.

You'd almost think it was winter.


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