Bring on the standstill!

I’m writing from the only café still open on King Street in Old Town, Alexandria. It is Saturday afternoon. I came down here to run errands and meet up with some friends, despite the fact that today gave the National Capital Region a nice little whack of snow and sleet. And I do mean little, especially when you compare the totals to what’s been going on back in New England.

Platform at the King Street Metro: It would appear that even the blue and yellow lines went home early.

Everything closed early here today, much to my relative irritation. Closed early for a few inches of snow? Come on.

The scene at home, one week since the last good serving of the white stuff.

Now I won’t lie. I’m turning into somewhat of a wuss in my old age. Chalk it up to spending too much time in Hawaii, Southeast Asia, San Diego, and West Africa—but I am kind of amazed at how this place seems to spontaneously shut down as if winter weather is a shocking new phenomenon.

I’m also far too single-minded to have anybody counter with justifications for why these retailers were smart to shut their doors at four o’clock in the afternoon. After all, I’m the one who trudged down here with merchandise to return, and now I have to drag it back home again. And now you can see that this is all about me being inconvenienced—but I will admit that I enjoyed a very Currier and Ives-esque walk up and down scenic King Street—so all was not lost. I really do like being out when the snow is falling.

When I was a kid, we had lots of great weather roll through Massachusetts, and it made for truly unparalleled entertainment. Snow was the best, because the aftermath created spectacular sledding hills on the neighborhoods roads (and I assure you we watched for cars…most of the time). Not much could stop the people of Cape Cod from getting out and on with our day—not a few inches a snow, not even two feet of snow.

My neighborhood gets snowier than your neighborhood.

Back in 1987, a pretty hefty blizzard kicked up in February on the Cape. I was nine, and remember sitting in our 1979 Ford F250 truck as my dad and aunt attempted to navigate Mashpee’s Route 151 in a complete whiteout. They thought that the packie might still be open, so off we went. I remember the whining of the four-wheel drive as we crawled up the big hill leading to the police station, then rolled down past the Commons and somehow managed to not drive straight across the rotary and instead curled to the right toward Deer Crossing. The Liquor Warehouse was located just across the street.

As I sat in the back seat of the truck and stared out at white nothingness, I remember my aunt Maya nervously jawing at her big brother—my dad—belatedly assessing the wisdom of our little outing. Dad continued to assure her that we would be fine. “That goddamned truck could go anywhere,” my dad now tells me today. My aunt was not so sure, and she continued to remark on the snow as we somehow managed to stay on the road. I have no idea why I was not terrified.

The packie ended up being closed. We left empty-handed, and began the slow journey back home to our neighborhood on John’s Pond.

Depending on how you grew up, you might be shaking your head at my family and our somewhat miscalibrated concern for safety. After all, we kids were not only allowed—but were rather encouraged—to get outside or to the nearest beach when hurricanes came to town for a visit. We’re New Englanders. It’s kind of in our blood.

Hurricane Gloria: me, my little brother and sister out at Nobska just as the weather was getting interesting.

Hurricane Bob: this time dodging trees in the front yahd. And yes, I know I rocked that blue bathing suit.

When I think about it now, maybe my dad and aunt didn’t decide to go out in a blizzard because they suddenly needed more booze. Instead, maybe braving the onslaught of snow was more about the adventure and continuing to live, despite the foreboding elements that suggested that they do otherwise. Or maybe it was just that trademark New England stubbornness. Who knows? To me, these two possibilities are kind of one in the same.

Hurricane Irene: my brother and neighborhood best friend still representing on Surf Drive in Falmouth. So proud.

I suppose that at the end of the day, the enjoyment of Mother Nature’s meteorological offerings truly does depend on a certain level of preparedness. Or at least the impression that you are well equipped to cope with what’s coming. Maybe Washington, DC is just smarter than the rest of us, and knows its limits when it comes to inclement weather. That very well could be the case. I guess that means that we northern yahoos will have more room to run rampant when everyone else is hiding indoors.