January 24th, 2005
Not All Snow Is Created Equal
So, how weird is it to move 600 miles south? Where I come from, snow is just not a big deal. It gets talked about a lot–”Yessah, that was a whoppah of a stohm last night, eh?” “Ayuh, how ’bout that black ice?” But no one really takes it seriously. A few hours into a snowstorm, folks bundle up and go out and shovel the walk, or the driveway, or get out the snowblowah and take care of business. The plow truck shows up at, oh, 4 AM or so, yellow roof light flashing, and plows out the driveway. There are fleets of folks who make their living this way, hardly getting a night’s sleep some weeks if it snows a lot, to make sure that we can all get out to work bright and early the next day. If it’s a big storm, you shovel once before bed and again first thing in the morning, and the plow truck’ll come twice also. The sidewalk plow will have been by by morning shovel time, so the mailman can bring the mail and the neighbor can take the dog out for the morning constitutional. Life goes on.
Well, not so here, in my new home. Today, fully 24 hours after it has stopped snowing (and, I gotta say, it was a paltry accumulation of snow to begin with), people have still not cleaned off their cars! And not just the notorious neighborhood slacker–every Maine neighborhood has one, and all the other residents just roll their eyes, and half the time go over and clean it off for him–but droves of people! Whole parking lots full of cars covered with snow! What are people thinking? Don’t they know that shit will melt and freeze again and they’ll have a windshield full of ice, and probably frozen doors as well????
So I decide it might be good to go get some food. It’s a perfect day-after-the-storm day; the sun is shining, the sky is blue, things are looking good. So I head out with my grocery cart, and–shit! The sidewalk’s not plowed! What is wrong with these people? The gutters are full of six inches of slush surrounded by four inches of dirty water. The sidewalk condition seems to vary by block–you can tell the responsible home- or business owner because a lovely section of sidewalk will be clear, salted, and practically dry–juxtaposed with a treacherous section of slippery icy ruts. The block between my street and the next is covered with hard, packed, trodden-down snow, and my poor cart bumps up and down mercilessly the entire way, making the juice bottles clang against each other with each step. I worry that the baguette, in its little paper bag, will get soaked from the disgusting puddles–but, luckily, everything gets home safe and dry. However, it’s clear that I am not in Kansas anymore.
