When I was a kid, the suspense of figuring out whether there would be a snow day was crushing. Mom would kick us out of bed, and while she made breakfast we’d listen to WBZ for the announcer to read the list of closings. With 365 towns in the Commonwealth, and who knows how many nursery schools, senior centers, and knitting circles to work through, hearing the magic words that one’s town was closed was like hearing we had achieved victory in Germany and Japan simultaneously.
Then she’d promptly slip old plastic bread bags over our socked feet, stick them in buckled rubber boots, and kick us, swaddled in low tech wool, out into the maelstrom to spend the day moaning to be let back inside.
This morning I go to a website and tell in an instant whether or not I have to mess with the streets and kick Junior out of bed. He’s up there now, blissfully oblivious and missing out on the anticipation of days gone by. I look at my cell phone and learn that at some prudent point in the past I actually signed up for a SMS alert.
About a foot of snow fell last night in strong northerly winds. I’d classify it as a baby blizzard. We didn’t lose lights. The driveway is a mess. Cousin Pete needs to plow me out before I contemplate travel. So …. this week, Cotuit is the plan. North Carolina next week for lots of meetings.
Now to kick the snow off the wood pile and get a fire blazing before my 7 am Olympic marketing call with Beijing.