Another day of predicted rain, another day of mistaken
forecasts.
When I shut my blinds last night, I truly believed we were
only having snow showers. Oh sure, when
I shuttered the windows we already had two inches on the ground, and it was
still snowing. But the meteorologists
said "rain with some snow showers" and they should know. After all, they have computers and technology
and science, and I only have the sky and the television radar that broadcasts
24/7 on the local cable Weatherscan channel.
I can easily see the blue of heavy snow on the map. What the hell do I know?
This morning I have plans with a friend to go along with her
to buy a piece of fleece. She is making
scarves, and she wants to check out the post-holiday remnant bin. I want to check out the discount aisle, the
candy molds (that means plastic shapes for pouring melted chocolate into and
making things like lollipops, not candy with actual mold on it), and yarn. Yes, yarn.
I bought myself some giant knitting needles last spring, and I am
finally getting around to experimenting with the US size 19 ones.
Our itinerary starts at 9:25 a.m. when we check in to be
sure we're both awake enough to leave for the store by 10:00. My friend tells me that she has been up for
hours and has already shoveled some snow.
Shoveled? Snow
showers? Huh?
Apparently between the time I closed my blinds yesterday and
the time I open them this morning, six inches of slushy, heavy, icy, miserable
snow has fallen. If I intend to get out
of my house today, I'm going to have to shovel, as well. We push our start time off twenty minutes so
I can post the blog and make some kind of path from my door to the end of the
street, where my friend will pick me up in her SUV. I only shovel for about fifteen minutes when
the landlord's son comes over with the snowblower. I toss as much snow as I can into the common
area, lean the shovel against my side of the house, and run toward my friend's
car, yelling thanks and assuring mini-landlord that I will clean up anything I
need to later when I return.
On the way to our first stop, I cannot help but notice the
trees in the woods along the highway.
The snow is adhered to the tree limbs and tree trunks and errant plant
life making the entire side of the road look like some kind of wonderland. I start snapping pictures with my phone.
So enamored am I with this activity that when we arrive at
the store, I have forgotten to get the coupons ready. A few fumbling minutes later, we are in and
shopping. Not long ago we swore we would
never come back to this store, at least this location of the franchise, because
the last time we were here, the place was a shit-hole. A serious shit hole, and that's being
complimentary. At the time, it tore my
heart out. I used to be assistant
manager of this store, sacrificing my integrity and my job when a hostile
takeover occurred, preferring to leave with my dignity and honest managerial
reputation in hand rather than serve the Evil Queen who, coincidentally, didn't
last six months after her coup. But I
digress.
We are both shocked and pleasantly surprised to discover
that someone has come in and not only cleaned the store up but restocked it
properly. (Maybe it was the ass-tearing
email I sent the home office after our last visit?) By the time we are ready to check out, I
spend less than $5 on a bag full of merchandise, and my friend spends less than
$7. Let's be honest. There's nothing better than a 60% off sale
except a 90% off sale, and we hit both.
Then we decide to go in search of the Mediterranean bakery
we've heard so much about. We searched
everywhere for it the last time we were in the area, but it turns out we were
on the wrong side of the city square.
This time, armed with better information, we manage to locate the
place. It's closed today, but at least
we know where it is now. I vaguely
remember the back way to Lawrence, so we start driving through the small
neighborhoods that have gone almost exclusively Latino. The stores, the shops, the signs, all have an
ethnic flavor, but something else hits me, and it's not just because everything
is covered in fresh layers of white snow.
These neighborhoods that were so worn down the last time I was here,
decades ago when my late husband worked in the area, seem revitalized. Homes have been repainted, new apartment
buildings have been built, and the only house we see boarded up has actually
been burned in a fire.
We pass the donut shop where I spent a few months working
for my tyrannical mother-in-law, pass Central Catholic High School, and soon find
ourselves crossing the Merrimack River at the scene of another recent
fire. Six days ago a massive fire
destroyed what was left of the Merrimac Paper Mill. We are in the wrong lane to turn and see it,
but the driver in the right lane allows us to cut over. Surprisingly in the middle of the city, no
one is behind us, and we stop to snap a couple of quick pictures.
We decide to go for lunch before running the last errand,
and we finish our time together laughing about ways to smuggle B&M brown
bread in the can and boxes of Jiffy corn muffin mix over the international
border into Canada via airplane. (It's a
long story for another day. I'll let you
know if it involves bail money.) A
little over two hours since our escapades first began, I am back to clearing
off the cars and shoveling the last of the snow. After tomorrow, we're due for another deep
freeze, and it's worse to try and drive over chunky, sharp, frozen slush than
it is to play slip-n-slide with the refrozen melting driveway snow. I clean the bricks as best as I can.
When I come in from being out and about and from shoveling
once before I leave and once after I return, my feet and body are warm, but my
hands are like ice inside the heavy gloves.
I turn on the electric fireplace since I don't have a wood or gas
fireplace, and try to warm myself up.
The temperature has dropped markedly since I left earlier, and I don't
need a meteorologist to tell me this, though they all claim it won't be really,
truly, deeply cold until Tuesday.
But what the hell do they know? They told us we'd only be getting snow
showers. Bastards.
