On Saturday afternoon the weather drew B and me to our living room window time and again to watch how quickly the snow was falling, then to see if the picnic table had disappeared, then to worry whether the old apple tree would crack under the weight of its icy burden.
As we’ve come to learn, when a storm of this scale arrives in the Northeast, what it brings in great profusion is a muted hush, the sound of trees falling in the woods with no one there to hear them….
It’s barely been three seasons since we’ve dealt with a storm of this magnitude, and its early arrival is surprisingly thrilling, a bracing reminder of what full-blown winter brings, since winter is not officially meant to arrive for more than six weeks.
Here in the country, a storm means the chance to hunker down, read a book, stoke a fire, but not before scrambling to find snowshoes, snow shovels, and drat, where did we store that rock salt, again? The flurries whipped around our heads and blanketed the herb patch, and though the storm wreaked havoc on many surrounding areas—bringing down large trees and rendering entire communities without power—it was not ferocious enough to blot out our sense of adventure as we crawled our way up the road in our trusted Subaru to have dinner with new friends. Pear and pecorino risotto anyone?
The falling and swirling snow slowed our pace, forcing us to look with greater intention at the road immediately in front of us, and making us second-guess our turnoff. By the time we turned into our neighbor’s drive, the snow in their field was withers high to a passing deer.