I felt a few snow flurries when I came out of the post office the other day. This is April, I thought. This is Washington, DC. Although we came here primarily to be near our grandchildren, the warmer weather was a big attraction. So where was it?
It’s true that the cherry trees were blooming (and beautiful), but it was cold. Our fellow residents called it an “unusual” extension of winter.
April snow is not “unusual” in Boston where we came from. I remember a snowstorm on the tenth of May thirty-some years ago when my mother was visiting for Mother’s Day. And this past February was the fortieth anniversary of the Great Boston Blizzard of ’78 when more than an inch of snow fell every hour for thirty-two hours. We were without power for days, and everyone’s freezers had defrosted. The only dinner food we had was pasta and sauce that could by cooked by those of us with gas stoves, so our neighborhood bonded over a huge spaghetti party. Only doctors and emergency workers were permitted to drive, and people dragged groceries home from supermarkets on sleds. Of course, the stores soon ran out of milk.
Two days after our late DC flurries, Washington weathermen were predicting ten-twelve inches of snow, but not a single snowflake fell.
Too bad, I would have felt right at home.