Musings from Redwing Marsh
At noontime today, I closed the door on my home office and headed over to SkiMarket to pick up my new cross-country skis. The teenciest snowflakes were falling, and I was reminded of the old Native American adage, "Little snow, big snow; big snow, little snow." I figured the snow had to be part of a squall line because I hadn't heard anything about a storm. (Once December is here, I'm a weather nut. I stay tuned to dozens of forecast websites--all because I'm praying for snow for my cross-country rambles).
I got the skis okay; Fischer Jupiters (waxless). I have a pair of Norwegian wooden skis that glide like heaven on earth when I get the right combination of waxes blended in, an arduous undertaking before every ski venture. I bought the waxless because in the Boston area, there are many days in the year when regular wax is no good; a sticky, gooey klister is needed. What a mess! So I'm going to use the Fischer Jupiters on those days.
My trip home was an adventure. There I was on Route 128 when a blizzard force slammed into the highway. A swirling deluge of snowflakes hurtling downward, reducing visibility to near zero. The traffic slowed to a turtle's pace and I found myself becoming curiously anxious, all out of proportion to the situation. The darkness and the way the headlights of the other cars shone dimly through the snow were eerily reminiscent of the afternoon of February 6, 1978, when I drove on Route 2 from Lunenburg, Massachusetts (way up near the New Hampshire border) to my apartment in Cambridge. My little car was completely surrounded by whirling snow, and the only thing that I could see were the wan headlights of the car in front of me. I hoped against hope that this car would stay on the road so that I could make my way to shelter and a cup of hot tea. It did and I made it.
I made it today, too, of course, no sweat, or not too, too much anyway. The snow eased, the sun came out, and by the time I had Sophie out for her midday walk, the snow and wind were furious once more.
So what do I hear from the WHDH-TV weather people? A possible major coastal snowstorm this weekend? Oh, I hope so. My skis are ready. Are my legs?
I got the skis okay; Fischer Jupiters (waxless). I have a pair of Norwegian wooden skis that glide like heaven on earth when I get the right combination of waxes blended in, an arduous undertaking before every ski venture. I bought the waxless because in the Boston area, there are many days in the year when regular wax is no good; a sticky, gooey klister is needed. What a mess! So I'm going to use the Fischer Jupiters on those days.
My trip home was an adventure. There I was on Route 128 when a blizzard force slammed into the highway. A swirling deluge of snowflakes hurtling downward, reducing visibility to near zero. The traffic slowed to a turtle's pace and I found myself becoming curiously anxious, all out of proportion to the situation. The darkness and the way the headlights of the other cars shone dimly through the snow were eerily reminiscent of the afternoon of February 6, 1978, when I drove on Route 2 from Lunenburg, Massachusetts (way up near the New Hampshire border) to my apartment in Cambridge. My little car was completely surrounded by whirling snow, and the only thing that I could see were the wan headlights of the car in front of me. I hoped against hope that this car would stay on the road so that I could make my way to shelter and a cup of hot tea. It did and I made it.
I made it today, too, of course, no sweat, or not too, too much anyway. The snow eased, the sun came out, and by the time I had Sophie out for her midday walk, the snow and wind were furious once more.
So what do I hear from the WHDH-TV weather people? A possible major coastal snowstorm this weekend? Oh, I hope so. My skis are ready. Are my legs?
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