Snowpocalype: Just When You Thought It Couldn’t Get Any Better Than This

Day 6: Awaken and lean over to the window. In the official parlance of Massachusetts, there is a f@%& load of snow outside. I’m impressed, but it’s not a sight I haven’t seen before. Arise and flip on the TV. The well-dressed young thing behind the desk offers to “take you live to Ryan Whatisname, who is in downtown Bethesda. Ryan, what’s it like out there?”

Ryan, who resembles the Abominable Snowman in his enormously puffy-parka and ski hat pulled down to his eyebrows, raised a mittened hand in which is obscured a microphone, and bellows, “Well, Cathy, it’s snowing pretty hard here!!” Overwhelmed by this journalistic revelation, I turn the television off and began fixing a very large pot of coffee.

The kids get up, and proceed to educate me as to just how old I really am. It turns out that Full House is now a Nickelodeon re-run, just like Leave It To Beaver was when I was a child. Rather than spend a snow-day reading or melting braincells in front of the TV, one now “chats” with one’s friends, either through instant message, or by yelling very loudly at one’s computer and waiting for a voice to issue forth from it. This voice purports to be that of the eight-year-old down the street, but I am unconvinced. After realizing that Melissa Joan Hart of Sabrina the Teenaged Witch is now in her mid-thirties and being informed that no one remembers what Oregon Trail is (was?), I decide to take my decrepit bones outside and get some shoveling done.

I am informed by my godbrother-in-law that there are big men who have been hired to shovel, especially as he is leaving as soon as possible for Hawaii (on business. No seriously). Harnessing all my Massachusetts-born pride and the legendary Keown stubbornness, I vow that no man will do what I can damn well do myself, and begin to apply myself with vigor to the snow that is now drifting up around my knees.

A word about snow shovels in Maryland. They are designed along the lines of an ice-cream scoop; think of a very wide “C”. In the usual circumstances where one needs to push an inch or two of snow around, these work very well. However, in the face of 28 inches of God’s wrath, they are about as effective as a Zippo lighter for cooking a turkey. Speaking of which, can someone get me a Zippo lighter for Christmas, or something? I don’t smoke, but all good spies need them; I’m told their good for intimidating witnesses.

The other alternative in the roller coaster of thrills that is shoveling is the industrial-strength thing that was fresh-purchased for this storm. The thing is gray and made of the same plastic as Barbie doll legs, and has to weigh two pounds. As a potentially lethal weapon, it’s ideal. For moving several hundred thousand tons of snow, I’m not so sure.

This is all on top of the fact that, this being Maryland, there is nowhere to throw the damn stuff. In Massachusetts, there is space on either side of the driveway—even a few inches—to chuck snow. Here, there is the yard on one side. And the neighbor’s driveway is on the other, with absolutely no dividing line. Which means half the shoveling is easy, and the other half takes on the air of a javelin-throw. The other alternative appears to be the street. Which hasn’t been plowed. At all.

“Umm…” says silly little me, “When do you think the plow will be coming?”

The neighbor across the street eyes me with gentle humor. “Oh, sometime on Sunday maybe. Definitely by Monday night, I bet.”

“Wait…what?”

He continues to look at me rather pityingly.

“But—how is the plow going to clear 30-something inches of snow? Why not plow 10 inches three times or something?”

“Yeah. But, man, the budget for snow plows is so high this year already, you know?”

I just keep staring, my mind meanwhile screaming Of course it’s over-budget. You can’t budget for snow Just pay it.

“So…if the house catches fire, should we just start throw snowballs at it?”

The Neighbor scoffs gently.

“I’m sure the fire department will get down this.” As he says this, a pick-up truck fishtails by in reverse. According to the decal on its side, it is the vanguard of the self-same Fire Department, clearing a path should combustion occur.

“Great.” I smile, looking down at the now-frozen pile of exhaust-stained crap that has adhered to the pavement. “I feel much better now.”

There are two kids trolling the neighborhood offering to shovel for money. Godsister hires them to help with the house across the street. Decide that no thirteen-year-old boy is going to be me (who has the metabolism of a thirteen year old boy, anyway), and lend some biceps to the effort. By the time I go in, am unable to lift my arms past my shoulders, which makes removing my coat a feat of near-epic proportions.

Day 7: It has stopped snowing sometime during the night. The driveways are comparatively clear from our work yesterday, and now it simply remains for us to clean off the car. Especially the Mini Cooper, as it has a cloth roof, and the forty-seven tons of snow piled on top is becoming somewhat worrying. In an effort to engage the kids, I suggest that they come out with me and help. We finally manage to shove the door open and stumble out into the winter wasteland.

“It’s cold!” Shouts one child.

“It’s heavy!” Shouts the other, wielding her shovel at a small drift. They decide to go see the neighbors, and wade into the street, which is hidden beneath two feet of snow.

My Godsister comes out and realizes that the downspout is out of commission, full of ice and causing the gutters to begin leaking. I advise her to go and get some hot water and pour it on the downspout in order to melt the water inside, and go back to shoving snow off the roof of the car.

“What seems to be going on here?” The voice sounds male, but I have my hat jammed so far down on my head that everyone is sounding somewhat like a Muppet.

Godsister explains the downspout issue.

“Ah, that’s easy. Go fill up the teapot and pour the hot water down it." Returns the voice in confident tones.

Ooh, I think, how marvelous that we have a big, strong man to help us with our dilemmas.

Godsister goes inside for the teapot. Manly Neighbor stares at the drainpipe, sparing occasional glances in my direction. I continue heaving anvil-heavy clumps of snow from the roof of the minivan to the driveway, where it falls with a contented sounding whump.

“Looks to me like you’re doing that backwards.” Chuckles Manly Neighbor.

“Oh?” I ask, between gasps.

“Yeah,” he chortles again. “You’re pushing snow on the driveway. You’re just going to have to shovel it again, you know.”

I look at him. He has returned to staring at the drainpipe. I consider suggesting to him that unless he possesses laser vision, he might very well want to pick up a shovel and get to work. But by the time I look up, he has wandered off, and my dignity remains intact.

That night, we host a Super Bowl party for all the neighbors who are unable to attend parties of their own. It actually was great—everyone brought a little something that they had made, including a box of frozen pigs-in-a-blanket, which I won’t eat, but do enjoy flinging in a pan and roasting senseless.

My mother starts calling to make sure I’m still alive and sentient.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m dealing with wieners.”

“You’re what?”

“Pigs in a blanket.”

“You’re touching hot dogs?”

“Of course not! I found some tongs somewhere.”

The neighbors are lovely people, and thoroughly welcoming to a poor, snowbound Bostonian. However, I notice they all have the exact same reaction to me when introduced.

“Oh! From Massachusetts!” They smile. “So, this must be, you know, nothing to you.”

The appropriate response would be to laugh and make some kind of polite and self-deprecatory remark. I am not known for my appropriate responses.

“You’re right.” I say, entirely seriously. “I’m still waiting for this to be a practical joke.”

It is clear by their response, it isn’t.

Later that night, Maryland’s Public Television Station shows a documentary on the Great Flu Epidemic on TV. Godbrother-In-Law comes down to say good night and finds me gaping at the screen. He watches for a few moments, then looks at me.

“You have a thing with high death-tolls, don’t you?”

I just nod and keep watching.

Day 8…Day 9…Pass in a blur of unplowed streets and re-runs of the Office. I have knit a scarf that is nearly 9 feet long.

We make it out for a few hours to get lunch, to look in the bookstore, and to generally revel in the scent of fresh, exhaust-tinted air and to engage in human interaction.

While at lunch, however, everyone’s phone starts beeping at the same time. Everyone. It’s like a scene out of a Verizon commercial. It turns out that everyone in Bethesda subscribes to some kind of magic message service that alerts you to impending nuclear disaster, Mongol invasion, or, in this case, more snow.

That’s right, folks. Another 20 inches are on their way.

Attempt to contact Moonfleet, my British Spymaster, but am at a loss as to how precisely to explain that I can’t get to the Archives because I somehow have wound up in 1907, and, at this rate, the Archives might never open again.

Kim Philby never had to put up with this nonsense.

Day 10: Reserve a copy of Alfred Crosby’s book on the Great Flu Epidemic in America and make it to Barnes and Noble before the snow erupts once again to pick it up. The lady behind the counter retrieves it for me, and regards the cover for a long moment. Then, she looks up at me; then back to the book cover.

“So…why are you reading this?” She asks, slightly hesitantly.

“Oh, no reason, really,” I respond. “I just thought the kids could use some light reading before bed. We ran out of fairy tales. Have a nice day now!” And I beat a hasty retreat.

Not hasty enough, it would seem. The streets are once again dire need of an angioplasty, and pedestrians are fleeing the unsheltered sidewalks, screaming in fear and begging for mercy from the offended heavens. I roll my eyes and begin singing again as loudly as I can. Apparently the man waiting for his bus does not appreciate Dracula the Musical. Everyone’s a critic.

A word, briefly (I hope) about Maryland Plow Jobs. And yes, I know how dirty that sounds.

(Note: I took this picture at a red light. I don't remember the two cars crashing into each other, but it does certainly look like the visual version of "Famous Last Words")

Because the county didn’t see fit to plow until after there were thirty inches of snow on the ground, and after several cars had forged paths through the snow (see above), the best the plows can now hope to do it to flatten the icy mess of blackish snow and ice along the surface of the roads, meaning most streets have a 2-inch coating of crust on top of them that are passable only because the ice crystals stuck in them provide traction. Except for the places where the ice isn’t. Then, there are gaping holes in the frozen sludge that, when one inevitably hits it with one’s car, one’s liver is driven by the force of the impact against one’s lungs.

I finally manage to trundle the poor, abused car down the street to Home, and think, since the car has front wheel drive, to back it into the driveway for easier movement if it is possible to ever leave the house again. I turn, ready to back the car up the driveway, and the air is suddenly filled with the sounds of screeching tires and the whine of an engine pounding in furious futility. I have become stranded on the ice-bump that had formed between the two tire-tracks on the street. My front wheels are stuck in the snow, leaving the back wheels to spin useless a few millimeters over the cement.

One of the neighbors shows up and valiantly begins to dig away at the ice, hoping to give me enough traction to wiggle the car free. It doesn’t work. At all.

A few moments later, my humiliation is further augmented by the approach of another car. Since I am stuck perpendicular to the street, this new arrival has absolutely nowhere to go, and nothing to do but sit and stare at me and my now useless car. This driver leaps from his BMW and rushes to my side, conferring with the neighbor before turning to me and squinting through the window.

“There’s no reason to worry,” he assures me, in an unnecessarily loud voice. “Your car is stuck on the ice. What we are going to do is to dig away some of the ice from your front tires in order to give you traction. You are driving a Lexus, which typically have front wheel drive, which will allow you to rock the car free. That means you need to put the car in reverse, then in drive, then…”

I lose the train of his explanation, distracted by the almighty urge to prove that I am from Massachusetts and used to ice. I am then distracted by the urge to prove to him that though I am wearing mascara and eyeliner, that I could probably bench-press him, and he probably should stop talking to me like I don’t have to brain cells to rub together for warmth. Wonder briefly if he himself can be used as traction, but by then he is already on his knees, digging at the snow with the lid of a Tupperware container.

Godsister comes out to lend assistance, though whether it is to the nice men trying to free the car, or to keep me from flailing wildly every time the Man with the Beamer opens his mouth, I’m not sure. As if this scene couldn’t get any more fun, an older gentleman comes walking slowly down the street and surveys the four of us and the car.

“Can I help?” He asks. Fairly sure we can use all the aid we can get, we agree. What we should have ascertained prior to agreement was this man’s definition of ‘help’. Because, to the best of my ability, ‘help’ involves walking in slow circles around the stranded automobile, and making sure that he is always on the wrong side, thus subjecting himself to the threat of death or maiming with every attempt we make to wiggle the car free. To make a long, and incredibly painful story somewhat shorter, I get the car into the driveway. The Men returns to his Beamer and departs, no doubt to look for more helpless, less cranky damsels to rescue. The neighbor goes in, hopefully for a stiff drink and a nap, and the older man wanders away. I slink into the house and hide.

The Godfamily leaves to get groceries. Decide to take this opportunity to calm my frayed and clanking nerves by playing the piano. I sit down, turn on the electric keyboard, and am just settling into a favorite piece when, from behind me, comes a cry, as of a twisted soul in torment, or as of tone-deaf sirens trapped on the far-off shores. It turns out that the dog has a musical turn and enjoys yowling along. Wincing slightly, I decide that I am beyond argument, and change tunes. The dog changes pitch and howl-length in order to keep up with me. I remember another piece and begin to play it. And the dog follows me into the new key and the new tempo.

No lie. The 45-minute concert that Macy and I put on might very well be the highlight of the trip. I bet the neighbors have a different opinion on this, but such is the way of the wintry world.

Turns out that there is no more produce to be purchased for love or money in Bethesda. Just as there is no more meat, butter or eggs. Apparently, the survivors of the last Biblical catastrophe have alerted their friends and everyone is now in a buying frenzy. Because when I’m trapped at home, I want to know that I’ll never need to worry about running out of grapes and bacon.

We go to the neighbors to watch American Idol and I sit in the rocking chair with my tea and my knitting, surrounded by teenage girls and suddenly evolve into my own grandmother. During a commercial, Neighbor Mom explains that she went out and stocked up on candles and batteries, since “we didn’t lose power in the last storm, so we’re definitely going to lose it this time.” I look at her over my needles, hoping my project will hide my grimace of confusion.

“You…what?”

“Well,” she says calmly, “We didn’t lose our power or…”

“No, I got that, just…never mind. Makes total sense. Do you let the unicorns graze outside, or will they be allowed to come in for the storm?”

Day 11: Guess what? It’s still snowing. Spend 2½ hours on the treadmill doing two 5k’s (whatever they are), and imagine myself in a place with balmy sunshine, soft, salty breezes and unicorns--or, maybe just a place with snowplows and adequate shovels—and read about the Spanish Flu Epidemic. Have decided that Heliotrope Cyanosis is rather fantastic, especially if you don’t have it. Around 6pm, decide that if I stay in this house any longer, something terrible might occur, and head outside to reacquaint myself with the shovel.

This time around, the snow is rather fluffy, and due to the freakishly high winds, it has drifted, meaning that the snow in the backyard is now almost 4 feet deep in places, but along the driveway and the walk, there is maybe 6-8 inches. And after the first storm, lifting 8 inches of snow with the Barbie Shovel is as simple as breathing. I think about Kim Philby, and wonder if, following his defection to the USSR, any of the Mrs. Philbys (Philbies?) made him shovel. In which case, maybe he did have to put up with this nonsense. Maybe they just made Maclean shovel for them.

Return to the warmth of the indoors and opt to finish Sherlock Holmes vs. Dracula instead of plowing on through the flu epidemic. Am a little bit perturbed by how much I love trashy literature.

Day 12: There’s more snow in my driveway. Make a note that I have, at least, mentally, taken possession of the driveway. Decide to forestall being concerned over this fact until after I’ve finished my coffee and Frosted Mini-Wheats.

For the record, Frosted Mini-Wheats may indeed be God’s perfect food. If you can’t manage a Zippo lighter, I will totally accept gifts of Frosted Mini-Wheats.

Retrieve some dry and manly clothes and head out to once again tackle the drifts. As it is blessedly warm out, I decide to show these charming Southerners how real Massachusetts ladies shovel, and remove my coat and scarf and take to shoveling in my t-shirt and jeans.

As I am working my way up the driveway, a pick-up truck makes its way down the quasi-semi-sorta-plowed streets. Five men leap from the cab and the back, armed with big puffy jackets, thermal hats and massive, industrial-strength shovels (no doubt made of Ken legs for extra manliness) and all set to work shoveling the driveway of the neighbor across the street. These, I think, must be the landscapers who were hired to clear the driveway. One of them looks at me and says something to his companions, which I am unable to hear over the sound of my iPod. I decide, however, that there is no way in hell five dudes in a pickup truck will ever beat me in a shoveling match, and get back to work. Twenty minutes later, I am proven right. The dudes look at me with newfound respect and I swagger back onto the porch to get the brush to clean off the cars…yet again...