Storms are funny things. Sometimes you get them, sometimes you don’t. I’m not surprised when a storm that is several states away doesn’t reach me or even one that is counties away. But when just a few miles makes a big difference, the difference simply feels odd.
I noticed that (again!) earlier this winter during two of the ice storms. I felt as though I was living in the middle of Dr. Zhivago, but when I drove down off the mountain, suddenly I was somewhere else. This latest nor’easter was like that, though this time the folks who live 7 miles south of me were in Dr. Zhivago, not me.
Roundtop ended up with perhaps 2-3 inches of snow. It’s hard to measure because it blew all over the place—still is. I took this photo early on in the snow, when I still had little more than a dusting. But just to the south of me, in York, they had 10 inches of snow. Schools were closed, people didn’t make it to work because the highway was a whiteout and then drifted shut again before the plows were a mile up the road.
Once again I have a pretty little snow—at least that’s how it looks from inside the cabin. The siskins are chasing the titmice away from the feeder. The squirrels are chasing the siskins away. The little deer is munching on the juniper bush at the foot of the steps. Outside it’s 4 degrees with 15-20 mph winds gusting to 30 mph, so that’s not too pretty. But it’s not Dr. Zhivago.