We’ve had a couple of almost snowless winters in New England.  But it only takes one big storm to bring back memories of others.  And we got a big one this weekend.

The forecast predicted another blizzard of ’78, and it came within inches of that record.  In ’78, our kids were eight and six.  Our street lost power for days.  Boston’s major circumferential highway was a parking lot of abandoned cars.  A thoughtful neighbor (with a gas stove) cooked up enough spaghetti sauce from her freezer (which lost power so the sauce would have spoiled) to feed an army.  A neighborhood grocery store managed to open, and because there was a driving ban, people went to it on sleds or cross-country skis to pick up milk.

We were better prepared for the blizzard of ‘13.  The Governor of Massachusetts ordered all but emergency vehicles off the roads by 4:00 on Friday. We had candles and flashlights at the ready.  This time there were no children to entertain.  But they checked in with us—one from snowless Maryland and one from snowless Korea.

In the morning, the neighborhood was magical.  We estimated 24” of snow had fallen on our patio table.  The snow was piled high against our doors, and we had to remove the glass from our front storm door so we could shovel away the snow and get out.  Luckily, we didn’t lose power.

We postponed our Saturday night dinner party.  We read the paper on our computers. (We couldn’t do that in ’78.) We snuggled into the sofa with good books. 

Tomorrow we will have to resume our busy lives.  The snow will turn black, and it will be hard to get around.

But for forty-eight hours, we enjoyed the snow.  And the memories.