This week, in addition to my usual water-into-wine activities at work, plus my ongoing quest to become a middle-aged origami master, I've spent too much time watching the Weather Channel, following the central states' ice storm.
No, no schadenfreude here. I now have family in Kansas--my sister and my parents--so I like to keep up with what, if anything, they're facing, which, if truth be told, is usually a barrage of miscasted weather prognostications:
"It will snow a 100-year blizzard! The weather will be so cold and severe that Willa Cather will rise from the dead just to walk through the storm and write another novel about the experience!"
"Ice will be as thick as a lumberjack's arm, and we're likely not to see electrical power ever again. Remember when The Day After was filmed in Lawrence? It'll be like that!"
"Plague of locusts, rain of frogs, the lion lies down with the lamb--I'll have the complete forecast at 10!"
Such is the small-scale drama! of weather reporting in the Topeka-Lawrence-Kansas City market.
If truth be told, though, weather is so variable in that region--will we be visited by a brusque, short-tempered Alberta Clipper today? or maybe something balmier, more languid, yet equally short-tempered, up from the Desert Southwest?--it would be hard to get it right. But like your doctor after your physical, local meteorologists in that part of the world seem to take great pleasure at forecasting the direst of situations, only to revise heavily the day after any exploratory surgery/rain-instead-of-snow scenario. "Oh, it turned out to be just a shadow on the Xray!"/"Wichita and Tulsa got socked, but we narrowly missed the Apocalypse once again!"
Of course, I was also interested in the Central Time Zone weather this week because I still have many good friends from my days in Texas. And, trust me, despite the butch bravado of the Lone Star State ("Don't mess with Texas!"--which, it should be noted, started out as a "don't litter" campaign, not some sort of post-Alamo battle cry), nothing makes a ruff-n-tuff Texan pick up his petticoats, scamper across the dancefloor, and fall into the arms of the first Wyoming cowboy he sees like the threat of snow or ice.
My friend Snappymack has done a good job of conveying how the situation played out this week, so you should read that before proceeding.
Back? Good.
Still, it's hard to fault a population for its fretful aversion to ice and snow when it so rarely sees any. In my nearly nine years in Texas, I think I may have witnessed one steady snow shower (of the 10-minutes-of-intensity variety), flurries a couple of times, and sleet once. (I did have a spell of good luck, dining al fresco in Guadalajara, lounging on the beach in Puerto Vallarta, while friends shivered "up north." Tra la tra la.) Snow wasn't unknown--from nearly my first day there, the conversation at some point in a friendship would turn to the "where were you when we had 13 inches of snow in the winter of 1985?" and the Texas Hill Country, at a higher elevation than San Antonio, would get snow at times, even when the city itself would get only rain or a little ice.
But as Snappy notes, once there was ice--or the threat of ice, or the fear of ice, or the rumor of ice, or an icehouse on which the word "house" had burned out from its neon sign, or even an empty, discarded ice tray spotted on Loop 1604--the world according to the Texas Department of Transportation stopped cold. And, then, so did everything and everyone else.
Some people live to work, some people work to live. I myself am somewhere in between, living to work many days, working to live at other times (at least in comparison with my more goose-stepping-across-campus colleagues), but also looking for any excuse to come in late, stay at home under the covers, try to perfect an origami swan, make waffles and hot chocolate, or keep on keepin' on with my writing. And a Texas snow or ice day was always a wonderfully, cosmically aligned reason to do so--even if all I really ended up doing was sitting around in my sweats eating Nutella straight from the jar and watching back to back episodes of Jerry Springer and Maury all day long.
Oh, no complaints here, but that panic-at-the-rodeo-approach to climate change did always make even me, a Southerner somewhat used to mild winters and shorts-at-Christmas-dinner, chuckle. To no one's amusement but my own, I used to say that when the temperature dropped below 70F in San Antonio, there were calls for the National Guard to be deployed for emergency sweater distribution--a line, sadly, no one appreciated as much as me.
But reality could be funnier. After it freakishly hit 100F degrees my first February in South Texas (a novel moment I actually enjoyed, having not lived through a Texas summer yet), I remember wondering out loud why the stores even bothered to sell wool garments, and a woman I worked with spoke up and said, "Because of days like today--it's cold!" It was at the time perhaps 60F with a breeze.
A temperature of 50F with a blustery wind was liable to make wealthy matrons break out the furs. I distinctly remember seeing some ol' dowager empress doing said same one January morning down by the public library, which was situated in an area of downtown where such a sartorial display was liable to prompt the snatching of one's chinchilla stole from one's shoulders to be used for bringing out a shine on someone's 4x4 truck or low-rider. But who am I to argue? Anything for fashion, Miz Thang.
It was rarely if ever as bad as it was made out to seem. Yet, during our so far fairly mild and snowless winter, I found myself missing Texas this week. Yes, in part because I'm always up for a few days off at my employers' expense, but maybe too for the Central Time Zone state of mind.
A little ice is dangerous, so why risk your life for work? The freeways must be shut down; so what's your hurry? It's too cold to go outside, and besides you might slip and fall on the icy steps or sidewalk. We're just going to have to wait until that melts away and hope that it doesn't refreeze. So sit back, relax, fire up the digital cable, and grab yourself some beer from the fridge, and chips and salsa from the pantry. If you get too engrossed in the weather reports, Days of Our Lives, or the New Zealand field hockey semifinals on ESPN, maybe the local Mexican or Chinese place will deliver dinner. Oh, and break up the televised monotony by spending the day on the phone calling your friends, saying over and over, "Nuthin', how 'bout you?"
Personally, I think we need more days like that in Pennsylvania, the Northeast, and the Mid-Atlantic. At least I know I do. This afternoon's imminent "winter weather advisory" for 2 to 3 inches of snow--our first of the season--isn't going to cut it though.
Thank goodness I took Monday off, anyhow.
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