The snowpack is finally low enough to not swallow up our children, and temperatures have finally risen enough to not risk frostbite and hypothermia in our little ones.
It’s been the winter of too much snow and subzero temperatures, which has forced us to remain indoors more than we would’ve liked.
Finally, it’s time to play.
As my home state of Connecticut prepares for the oncoming blizzard, there are a few things to keep in mind:
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The blizzard will hit on Monday night and continue through Tuesday. But the roads will be cleared and stores will be open by Wednesday, which means we are talking about about 36 hours trapped indoors.
And you’ll probably spend about 16 of those hours sleeping.
This is not a big deal. Even if you lose power, which will suck, it’s not a big deal.
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I’d also like to remind my fellow New Englanders that blizzards are not exactly uncommon in our neck of the woods. In the last five years, New England – and specifically Connecticut – has been hit by three major blizzards, more than two dozen snowstorms of a foot or more, and an October nor’easter which did more damage than all of the blizzards combined.
We’ve seen this before. We’ll see it again. We live in New England. It shouldn’t be a surprise.
Also, you probably had enough bread and milk to get you through Wednesday.
The winter edition of Seasons magazine is now available for your reading pleasure.
If you don’t subscribe to Seasons, the magazine can also be read online, including my column, “The Last Word,” which can be found on the last page of the magazine.
For the winter edition, I write about how real men don’t use snow blowers and my unique means of clearing my driveway of snow in the winter.
Staring at the photographs from the enormous snowfall in Buffalo, I was reminded of the Blizzard of ‘78 in Massachusetts. I was only seven years-old at the time, but I remember it well.
My hometown of Blackstone and the surrounding towns of Lincoln, Smithfield, Woonsocket, and North Smithfield were the hardest hit, reporting more than 40 inches of snow.
I spent days outside with my father, shoveling trenches from the front door to the car, and from the car to the street. Truthfully, I was probably more of a nuisance than anything else, but I remember feeling like a man for the first time in my life.
We were ill equipped for the winter, as was the case throughout most of my childhood. We wore old socks on our hands in lieu of mittens. Hand-me-down winter coats.
I didn’t own a pair of snow pants until by friends bought me a pair a few years ago for my birthday so I could stay warm at Patriots games.
I didn’t own a scarf until a girlfriend bought one for me when I was in my twenties.
We didn’t own any winter boots, a fact that my evil stepfather would later use in an attempt to drive a wedge between me and my father. Instead, we wore three or four pairs of socks and then wrapped our feet in bread bags before putting on our sneakers.
I thought this was something that only my family did, but when I mentioned the bread bags in a tweet last week, three people responded, saying they did the same thing as kids.
Bread bags used as waterproofing.
Apparently it was a thing.
