Some snowstorms are small enough that it’s safe to snuggle in tight on the couch and wait them out.
You watch the local news on the old cathode TV with its big fat ass, your eyes glued to the ticker at the bottom of the screen announcing closures, eager to watch your elementary school’s name scroll by.
You know that they’re just being cautious: you just played outside, and the air really doesn’t smell like trouble.
But sometimes, it’s crisp and unfriendly in your mouth, like an apple still on its way to ripe.
That type of air is your fair warning that it’s gonna be a big one.
On those days, you head to the hardware store with your father and you help load the truck bed with the ancestral supplies: fifty-pound bags of rock salt and a fresh shovel to replace the one that wore out last year, this time with a fancy ergonomic handle that curves like a swan’s neck.
You learn these ways when you’re young.
The first few winters of your northern life are a precious time of snowmen and sledding and joy.
Then, the year arrives when your motor skills come together enough for you to hold your own tiny shovel, and your family introduces you to the blizzard battle.
It’s an all-hands situation, a winter storm.
(I was five when the Blizzard of ‘93 smacked into my home state of Vermont.
It was terrifying: the air so full of flakes I couldn’t see past my little, outstretched arm.)
When snow falls hard enough and fast enough, it’s important to get out there and do some maintenance shoveling.
If you don’t, you’ll be snowed into your own house before you know it.
Storm winds can pile a snowbank in front of your door and pack it in tight, no problem.
So it’s better you get out there into the worst of it, and it’s best that you bundle yourself like you mean it.
Your gear-up will take a long time: in the movies, it would be a montage.
(For the love of God, remember to pee before you start.)
Long underwear (both shirt and pants)
THICK socks (two pairs)
Leggings
Jeans
Waterproof snowpants (the kind with suspenders, preferably, since you’re gonna be doing a lot of bending and squatting)
Waterproof boots (leave the UGGs for another day)
Sweatshirt
THICK winter coat
Hat
THICK layer of Vaseline on your face and lips
THICK scarf wrapped around your neck and lower face (as many times as you can, not just once all cute like you’re walking in Central Park in the fall)
Coat hood zipped up all the way over the hat and scarf
Handwarmers into your mittens
Mittens on BEFORE you open the door
Gearing up is a meditative process, not meant to be rushed.
Every cold-weather item you own is inherited from an older family member.
Nothing fits quite right, but it all feels like home.
You use the layering time to prepare mentally for what lies ahead: wind, cold that makes you leave your body, and the pure physical toil of scraping, lifting, tossing.
You do it not because you love it, but because you need your home to remain standing once the storm has passed.
The nice part about a blizzard’s volume of snow is that it makes everything quiet.
It’s a cone of silence around you that only includes your breath and the snap of snow-clumps under your boots.
It’s a weighted blanket over the trees, the buildings, the power lines.
It quiets the people, as well.
It’s hard to have an argument when you’re out of breath from unavoidable physical labor.
Once the maintenance shoveling has been done for the hour, you head back inside, victorious, and make the promised hot chocolate.
(Swiss Miss is the all-time, uncontested gold standard, but store brand was usually what we had around growing up unless it was a special occasion.)
The pros make it with milk instead of water: the texture is better and you need the calories after all that hard work.
(Your parents might put a little coffee in theirs, but you’re still in elementary school and far too young for that.)
By the time you finish your drinks, enough blizzard snow will have come down that you’ll need to dig out again.
But, that’s alright.
Just keep cycling between the shovels and the cocoa, and don’t forget to wave to the neighbors.
