Expiration Date: March 25th
One p.m., Friday, Jan. 23rd: I’ve had it up to my ears with the bleats of “Snowmageddon” and “Snowocalypse” that’ve given weather forecasters (and pretend social media meteorologists) in most of the country a real or symbolic boner that’s only achieved in the fine print of Viagra or similar products. I do hope that I’m not up to my ears in a foot of residual snow and sleet that’s predicted, depending upon what hour it is, and how much you have to squint to decipher the multi-colored precipitation maps, during this week. Is the Super Bowl over yet? Don’t think so.
I don’t like snow of any accumulation, icy sleet or freezing rain. It disrupts business, traffic and drives people crazy. A week ago I was a passenger in a Lyft and the amiable driver told me he was in the doghouse at home because he hadn’t bought salt on the 19th when the fury began, and was out of luck at four stores. (Salt sales were robust; my wife, the smart one, picked up 50 pounds at Green Fields Nursey on Falls Rd. in Baltimore.) I was at the local Safeway an hour ago and, as expected, it was pandemonium, with lines as long as those at gas stations in 1974. No one was in a good mood, no snow frivolity. The guy ahead of me had two dozen large packages of ramen, and I was just about to crack a joke, but decided to keep my own counsel. Who needs supermarket rage?
An idiotic Baltimore Sun editorial, saying it might be the biggest storm in 10 years—which wasn’t an epoch ago—offered these tips to its few readers. “Step 1? Don’t panic. Step 2? Keep not panicking. Step 3? Let’s maintain that non-panic approach. Well, you get the message. Dealing with snow starts with attitude. Respect it, but don’t fear it.” It’s an evergreen question, but who’s in charge of hiring at backwater newspapers today? Perhaps the editorial board assumed that no one would read their wisdom, except for a couple of lunkheads like me.
New York Times historian David Brooks, in writing about “The Coming Trump Crackup,” forfeited most of his “Step 1, 2 and 3: panic” column to men like Cato, Tacitus, Edward Gibbon, Edward Wortley Montagu, Thomas Jefferson and John Adams, who warned about tyrants (although none mentioned Trump, so Brooks was apparently unable to conduct live interviews even after slipping Mr. Peabody and Sherman 100 bucks for access to their wayback machine). But among the living, most absurd was Brooks quoting Robert Kagan (one of America’s leading Iraq Invasion armchair cheerleaders in 2003, often writing with now fellow Democrat Bill Kristol). In The Atlantic, Kagan wrote: “Americans are entering the most dangerous world they have known since World War II, one that will make the Cold War look like child’s play and the post-Cold War world look like paradise.”
There’s always the possibility of such catastrophe, as Kagan and his Atlantic compatriots have made clear since 2016. Since he was on a lark, I was surprised that Kagan didn’t also foresee the Los Angeles Dodgers winning the next eight World Series championships, ruining baseball, and making MLB’s steroid era “look like paradise” but maybe he’s not a sports fan. Except for cricket, matey.
Two p.m., Saturday, Jan. 24th: When I was 11, I pinched a neck nerve after jumping the 12 stairs in our family home in Huntington, New York, but only made it to Stair 11. Ever since, the injury’s acted as a reliable barometer, and while taking our dog Billy for a walk, I could feel the impending storm. (Named “Fern.” I missed “weather events” A-E and still don’t know when snow got a name. Is “Heat Wave Charlie” in the offing?) And then I pushed pins in a voodoo doll I bought in Caracas in 1988.
My wife and I went the ostrich route, watched the still-great John Schlesinger 1985 film The Falcon and the Snowman (Timothy Hutton’s last great performance before he went off the rails and later disappeared into the character of Archie Goodwin for TV; and another star turn for Sean Penn) and tried to ignore weather news. I went outside and did the same Tecumseh “rain dance” my son Booker successfully used to hail cabs 19 years ago on Greenmount Ave. The snow started falling around one a.m., and though I’m mesmerized, always, by the light it casts, went to sleep fearing the worst.
10 a.m., Sunday, Jan. 25th: You know the rest. A 13-year-neighbor came by and plowed our driveway and sidewalk, which was enterprising, and at least got rid of some snow before the sleet came. Trying to ignore the precipitation pounding on our roof, I read about the latest ICE overreach in Minneapolis, and like all but the most stalwart Trump/Stephen Miller disciples, wondered why the agent had to kill the guy, just like Renee Good before him. Are these masked men missing their… handcuffs?
Two p.m., Tuesday, Jan. 27th: The sun is strong at 26 degrees, giving us a tropical respite, and even melting some ice, which will freeze all over again tonight. Haven’t taken a spill outside yet, and unlike so many, we were fortunate to miss a power outage. And a bonus: the Red Sox are still in the 2026 pennant race.
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023