SNOWPOCALYPSE!!!!

The sky is falling! The sky is falling!

That was the sentiment last Tuesday night as the meteorologists predicted the New England version of “Snowpocalypse”. Suddenly, grocery stores were packed. People frantically stocked up on bread, milk, and The National Enquirer. School closings began to appear on the crawl beneath the nightly news. Coming on the heels of another monster storm that had brought the mid-Atlantic to a standstill (while blessedly missing the Boston area), this storm predicted more than a foot and a half of snow for the South Shore, and several inches for Boston and its neighbors to the north. Working parents scrambled to make alternate plans when area schools announced an early release. People checked flashlight batteries and snow blowers, brought in firewood and went to bed bracing for our own version of “Snowmaggedon”.
Wednesday morning…nothing. Wednesday mid-morning…five flakes. Wednesday afternoon…steady rain. And then finally, finally as the sun set and parents everywhere cried out in frustration, as bosses shook their heads and wondered why they had closed their office, finally the steady snow began to fall. At last, the giant beast had reared its ugly head, ready to bring New England to its knees.

Thursday morning, children all across the Boston area awoke to the most depressing and disappointing sound imaginable: cars whizzing along clean, clear roads No snow day, no delayed opening, no chance that today’s math test would be postponed. Parents smiled as they packed lunches, zipped coats and shooed their kids onto the bus. Instead of eighteen inches of snow, a mere five or six. Once again, New England managed to avoid “Snowmaggedon”.

Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do weatherman (sorry, meteorologists) revert to what my husband calls the “Chicken Little” syndrome, peppering us with tense music, bold graphics and dire warnings that this storm is going to be the mother of all storms? (Don’t forget Shelby Scott getting the tar whaled out of her in Scituate.) What is it about winter that sends us scurrying, grabbing milk and firewood at the mere mention of snow? After all, as my friend Jessie so aptly puts it, “It’s winter. It’s New England. What do we expect?”

A college friend was born in Buffalo but moved to North Carolina as a teenager. She would laughingly tell stories about how just an inch of snow would throw the entire state into a panic. Store shelves would empty, cars would queue at the gas stations, schools would close and drivers would skid all over the roads. An inch to a former Buffalo native is laughable (in Buffalo, they don’t bother to measure in inches, they just go straight to feet.) but to a southerner, it’s practically a blizzard. The recent storm that battered Washington DC and Virginia must have come as a shock. The District of Columbia is no stranger to the white stuff (especially where former Mayor Marion Barry is concerned), but it’s not often they get battered by two feet of snow. I’m therefore inclined to cut them some slack when it comes to the whole “Snowpocalypse” thing.

But why do we hearty New Englanders quiver at the first sign of snow? Heck, we’re shaking in our boots several days before anything happens? We allow these weathermen (sorry, meteorologists) to frighten us into thinking every storm is another “Blizzard of ‘78” headed our way. C’mon. We’re Pilgrims, people. We came across on a rickety wooden boat, braving storms and seasickness and religious persecution. Would John Alden cower in the face of Barry Burbank’s dire warning of an approaching Nor’easter? Would Myles Standish be intimidated by Harvey Leonard?
This is New England folks. We eat snow for breakfast (just not the yellow kind). So strap on your boots, pull up your snow pants and man up. We’ve got several more weeks of this winter weather.

I have it on good authority from our most accurate meteorologist of all: Punxatawney Phil.