Wednesday’s Theme Music

The wheel has turned. We’re on Wednesday, 3.15.2023. May be a repeat for all I know. Could be a single, moi on his own repeating the day, or a mass repeat — a group, region, tribe, nation, world, see if the outcome changes. We won’t know. Not at our level.

After the rain became snow yesterday, it snowed for nine hours without relief. With temperatures flexing between 33 and 36 F, the very wet snow layered but accumulation ended up as a few thin inches. Rows of slush developed on the roads. I worried about them freezing in place. Even though the temperature drooped to 28 F, the problems didn’t emerge. Now the snow has iced over, sketching patterns on the roads where vehicles traveled.

Several interesting factoids emerged about yesterday’s snowstorm. Mid-afternoon, we queried Alexa about when the snow would stop. She claimed that it was “39 degrees and mostly cloudy. It might rain.” Fifteen miles up the road, friends reported it rained but they didn’t have any snow. Traffic cams confirmed it.

This was all part of an atmospheric river that came to us from down south in California. Watching the radar, the storm shifted east northeast and fragmented.

Sunrise was 7:24, buttery with warming light. Sunset will be at 7:16 PM. 31 F now, a high of 37 F with freezing fog is the forecast. The cats are out, checking. Young Papi trotted on out. Tucker approached the open door and stopped to stare outside. As I began closing the door, Tucker moved to see something, a motion that shouted, “Wait, wait, what’s that?” I saw nothing and figured it was probably sleight of floof to keep me from closing the door.

The Neurons tossed “Spin You Around” by Puddle of Mudd (2004) into the morning mental music stream, a response to my wife and I talking, and her comment about the weather spinning us around.

Coffee is consumed, black, no sugar, French roast. Stay pos. If this is a do-over, try to do your best to shift us toward a more positive direction. Here’s the music. Cheers

Family Lore

I woke up thinking about Mom and being snowed in. I’d already sent her a quick, kidding message about having enough food on hand. It’s an ongoing joke that Mom always has a great deal of food on hand — especially desserts and treats. Besides, my three sisters and four adult grandchildren live in the area. They’re always checking in on her to ensure she has food. Mom’s boyfriend lives with her. His family also checks in on them. Food won’t be an issue.

Mom enjoys telling stories, and being snowed in reminded me of one. A retired nurse, she was a recurring baby-sitter for my grandniece, Amy. Once, when Amy was six (she’s graduating from college next year), Mom was driving her through a slippery Pittsburgh snowstorm on one of the back roads around Penn Hills and Monroeville. As the car began spinning and swerving, Amy shouted, “Grandma, don’t kill us!”

The car ended up off road, but a young man witnessed it and got her out in short order. However, the sentence, “Grandma, don’t kill us!” is enshrined in family lore.

In My Neck…

In my neck of existence, back when I was a child, snowstorms meant listening to the AM radio to see if school was canceled. Snowstorms meant bundling up to go outside to play in this substance, to sled, build, explore, and experience. The storms meant returning home to hot tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich with a dill pickle, or a cup of hot cocoa.

Snowstorms changed our neighborhood sounds, forcing out the usual ruckus in favor of cars’ soft sibilant hissing, or a spinning whine as tires looked for a bite in the slick mess. Rhythmic chains, clicking studs, and the snowplows’ grinding blades broke the stillness, enhancing the ambiance.

The house was hot and the outside was frigid. Sunshine seemed hidden by infinite layers. Trees were starkly outlined, but cars and houses were buried.

Snowstorms made the day special as routines bent and fractured under the snow’s weight. Now I anticipate the snowstorm for days, hoping it’ll return some of childhood’s joys when the snow closes us in, but the storms rarely stand up to hopes.

At least, in my neck of experience.

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