White out

Saturday morning I woke up to flurries.

Having lived in Boston for 12 years, eight of which were record breaking snowfall years, I am not a fan of snow. The last year I lived there, my landlord had to shovel me out of my apartment. Twice.

My memories of Boston winters are mostly filled with trudging through grey slush and accumulating salt rings on my shoes. I remember shoveling the sidewalk, and shoveling out my car.

One year, I was sick with a fever during a storm and failed to move my car to the opposite side of the street. Not only was my car ticketed, but it was also impacted by multiple plows' efforts the previous night. When I finally got out there and started trying to shovel my way through the ice-crusted snow, I was a miserable mess. It was rough work that I was not in shape to complete. After about 15 minutes of struggling, I looked up to see two postal workers emerging from the US Post Office across the street. Not only did they help me, they finished the job in about five minutes. It was almost better than spring. Almost.

Saturday, the flurries didn't last long at my house. They barely even stuck to the ground before the sun came out and the temperatures rose. For the few minutes they were falling, though, they were big, beautiful flakes.

I could handle that a few times each year. As long as they're gone by lunchtime.