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The Winter That Wasn’t

I’m going to go out on a weather limb, even though at the time of my writing this, there’s a nor’easter in the forecast. This is the Winter That Wasn’t. There. I said it.

Believe me, I’m not complaining. People around here talk about winters from when they were kids, and it sounds like they were quite brutal. Snow drifts up to one’s eyeballs, chains on car tires, storms that lasted for days. Everything was shut down, but no one could go anywhere anyway.

I grew up in New Jersey, so this winter has been like the winters I grew up experiencing. Lots of cold rain and weeks of grey days only the Addams Family could love. It’s been nice to not drive on ice or shovel my stairs. In January I was able to fly to Florida and back without worrying about weather-related flight delays.

To be truthful there have been things about a classic New England winter that I’ve missed. I can’t even believe I’m thinking this. I’m a summer person. Winter is the season when I put my head down and try to mentally plow through, kind of like high school gym class.

There is such beauty in the way snow rests on trees, though. The branches look cold yet soft. Like fuzzy skeletons. It’s Gothic and haunting and when the sun starts to go down and everything turns blue it’s breathtaking.

Snow days hardly exist anymore since pandemic adjustments made it possible for kids to do schoolwork and adults to do office work remotely. If you’re lucky enough to be able to have them, they are a rare treat, even during the harshest of seasons. When a snowmageddon hits, you get a day of no obligation except for perhaps some shoveling. As long as the power stays on, you’re good. Snug and warm with no place to go.

I’ve missed my cozy clothes of deep winter. I have a drawer of my warmest sweaters and a bin of my fuzziest scarves ready for service. When I put these things on, I’m wrapped in a clothing hug. Summer clothes are flowy and pretty, but not as comforting.

The pre-snowstorm excitement can be fun, and I’ve missed that, too. When a hurricane is brewing there’s a lot of anxiety in the air. When a blizzard is brewing, everyone seems more pumped up than nervous. At the local pub people gather to talk about how much snow there will be, when it will arrive, when we’ll all be able to go out and about again. Sometimes the local pub even stays open during the storm so hardy souls can brave the onslaught and congregate with others for a drink. Providing one avoids the grocery store the day before a storm, it’s all good. At the pub there will be drinks and conversation. At the grocery store there will be picked-over shelves and long lines. Better off at the pub.

Mostly I’ve missed the quiet that comes with a large snowy storm. There’s no road noise because anyone with half a brain is indoors except in case of an emergency. Even if there are sounds, they’re muffled like the world is covered in cotton batting. I generally hate to walk in the cold, but I love to walk in freshly fallen snow. The wind is low, everything is sugar white, and there’s a soothing silence.

Next year we may have a similar winter. They seem to be getting milder every year. Or maybe Mother Nature will make us pay for this one. We might be buried under bombogenesis storms for months and then you bet I’ll be cranky and complaining about every second if it. At that point I’ll need to pull this column out for a read. Maybe it will help, but if it doesn’t, I’ll pull on my cozy wear and take a walk to remind myself of what I could be missing. Where will I go? To the pub to warm my cold bones from the inside out.

Juliana Gribbins is a writer who believes that absurdity is the spice of life. Her book Date Expectations is winner of the 2017 Independent Press Awards, Humor Category and winner of the 2016 IPPY silver medal for humor. Write to her at jeepgribbs@hotmail.com. Read more of her columns at www.zip06.com/shorelineliving.