I used to worry, growing up, that they would invent heated roads before I graduated, doing away with those miraculous days when the phone would ring and someone on the other end would say “Red Operation” to my mother and I got to turn over and sleep till ten. (Red Operation? I swear I’m remembering this right, though I can’t find anything about it on the omniscient Google. It was so the Russians wouldn’t know our schools were closed, I also remember my mother saying. This is so crazy it could be true.)
Maybe if I’d grown up on Michigan’s UP, or even in Boston, I wouldn’t love snowstorms so much, but I doubt it. Snow falling makes a house a cozy cave, a place where you can make a fire and curl up with a book, even in the middle of the day.
And who knows, maybe they’ve made a mistake with the forecast, as they did a few weeks ago when snow flurries turned into six inches. Maybe we’ll get that Boston look after all, and we’ll have to leave our books and fire to visit the lonely snow blower.