Blizzard envy

Throughout the past weekend, weather reports couldn't contain their excitement. The Boston area would get hit by another Storm of the Century, a new Blizzard of '78.  With snowflakes beginning to spin through the air in downtown Boston, workers prepared to leave early, toting their laptops home for a snow day to follow.

It's easy to get all nostalgic about the days when you watched the snow line creep up the outside of your first-story windows, had to shoulder open the front door because there was a drift against it, and cleared a bathroom area for the dog.  He was at first stymied by snow deeper than his shoulders, but then remembered how to dolphin through it and race, all crazy-dog, in big circles until he was exhausted.

As long as you didn't have to deliver the newspaper or staff an ER, a Snow Day felt as if you were getting away with something, working at home or not working at all. For a few short hours, you made popcorn, baked cookies, fired up the wood stove, watched movies, played games, and acted like a kid who didn't have to do homework for a night.

At least until the power went out or you realized this stuff had to be shoveled and you were the only grownups in the house. And shoveling became a priority as soon as the plow went down the street, blocking your driveway with a containing wall that promised to turn concrete sometime soon.

Gary and Paula Skorb's driveway in Rutland, MA, says it all.

Our good friend Karen Mercer never minded tramping through two feet of snow, from her place up a brambly hill, through a vacant lot, to our place, because it was good exercise. Besides, there was a bottle of wine and a good meal at the other end. Crashing on the couch instead of tramping home was always an option.

She still likes to tramp through two feet of snow, from her place to downtown Exeter, New Hampshire, for a pomegranate martini at 11 Water Street's downstairs bar overlooking the frozen Exeter River.

And there's still an illicit thrill in the words snow day, even all the way from Florida.

"How many inches?" you ask greedily, hoping for the most.