I’ve seen several social media posts from meteorologists calling this storm “historic.” You know when the National Weather Service’s watches and warnings are measuring snow in feet versus inches you’re pretty much fucked. Since a day or so ago, everything I’ve read has said, “Expect one to three FEET.” I’ve even seen some forecasts saying four feet isn’t out of the question.
So, my wife and I did everything we could to prepare today for what’s coming. We went grocery shopping this morning. I hit the laundromat this afternoon. Pretty much all the churches in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan have already canceled Sunday services. (Except the Catholics. Go figure.) Thus, I don’t have to play tomorrow morning. (I was scheduled to play at a Lutheran church.)
Everywhere I went today, I could feel a kind of tension, as if everyone knows a war is going to start tomorrow and we’re all just enjoying our last day of peace before the bombs start falling. (Now, if I worked in the White House, I’d be blaming this storm on the Democrats.) Right now, it’s literally and proverbially the calm before the storm. Up until about an hour ago, the sky was painfully blue, not a cloud in sight. Will there be a power outage? Is my dog going to crap in the house instead of going outside? Are the trees in my backyard going to survive? Is my roof strong enough to support three or four feet of snow?
Answer: I don’t know.
It’s difficult living in this state of anticipation. A friend just texted me: “Fuck this shit, Just bring it on.”
Marie Howe goes for a walk in the woods . . .
The Forest
by: Marie Howe
A mast year for acorns, so like marbles and so many
we’re afraid of falling. I walk sideways
down the hill, holding a long stick; Kate goes before me
wearing her orange knit cap.
The broken trees lean on the unbroken trees
which will one day be broken.
Howe is afraid of falling. She’s also concerned about the unbroken trees, knowing full well they will eventually give way, either under the weight of the already broken trees or (maybe) because of a blizzard with 60 mile per hour winds.
I have lived through many tough winters in the U.P. This particular blizzard is, I believe, the third one we’ve had this winter: one right before Thanksgiving, one right after Christmas, and now one right before Saint Patrick’s Day. And, at the moment, no single meteorologist (from television to the National Weather Service) will say whether it’s going to be one foot or four feet of snow. Last time I checked, there’s a big difference between 12 inches and 48 inches.
I know I will be shoveling a lot tomorrow. And the next day, And the next. Until about Tuesday evening, my snow scoop is going to be my best friend. (If you don’t know what a snow scoop is, you are definitely NOT from the U.P. Google it.) That is about the only certainty I have tonight. Other than that, your guess is as good as mine.
Maybe we’ll get three feet of snow, or maybe we won’t. Maybe trees will fall, or maybe they won’t. Maybe the electricity will stay on, or maybe it won’t. Maybe Michael B. Jordan will win an Oscar tomorrow night, or maybe he won’t. That’s a lot of maybes.
Saint Marty wrote a haiku for this evening about something he never expected . . .
When My Sister Died
by: Martin Achatz
she left as sunlight
unzipped night, let the creamy
breast of morning breathe
