1.24.2005
Short Century
It snowed this weekend. A lot. I walked across an empty Central Park in the blizzard and trudged through snowbanks up to my thigh. I loved it. I loved the quiet of the city muffled by the snow, stomping my boots when I came inside for a coffee. I missed winter.
My mom called me from San Francisco to ask me what it was like. "I'm listening to NPR right now and they're calling it the Storm of the Century," she said. "Three feet in Boston, two feet in New York...is it really that bad?"
I looked out the window. True, there was a lot of snow, but two feet seemed like a stretch. "Fourteen to sixteen inches, I'd say," I told her. "And mom, in the thirty years you lived outside Boston, how many Storms of the Century were there?"
She paused. Did a little math, maybe.
"About six."
"Right. Exactly."
It snowed this weekend. A lot. I walked across an empty Central Park in the blizzard and trudged through snowbanks up to my thigh. I loved it. I loved the quiet of the city muffled by the snow, stomping my boots when I came inside for a coffee. I missed winter.
My mom called me from San Francisco to ask me what it was like. "I'm listening to NPR right now and they're calling it the Storm of the Century," she said. "Three feet in Boston, two feet in New York...is it really that bad?"
I looked out the window. True, there was a lot of snow, but two feet seemed like a stretch. "Fourteen to sixteen inches, I'd say," I told her. "And mom, in the thirty years you lived outside Boston, how many Storms of the Century were there?"
She paused. Did a little math, maybe.
"About six."
"Right. Exactly."
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