Last Saturday, Massachusetts had a snowstorm that everyone was comparing to the blizzard of 1978.  Our boys were six and eight for that one, and we were without power for a few days, bringing milk home on sleds because we were forbidden to drive unless we were doctors. Whoever had food would share it with neighbors.  It was a memorable adventure.

With some Covid and transportation anxiety, a friend and I decided that we wouldn’t let Saturday’s blizzard stop us from attending a concert we had tickets for Sunday afternoon at Symphony Hall.  We would go by subway with fresh N-95 face masks, stay in our seats for intermission, etc. 

The concert was superb, and we were feeling very content with our decision. Our good luck continued as we had no wait for the subway.  But there was a huge crowd at the station where we changed trains for Cambridge.  And no trains. 

It seems that all was stopped because there was “a person on the tracks under a train” at Harvard Square.  We thought of walking (too long) or calling a friend to come get us (too presumptuous) so we joined the crowd at a corner to wait for a collection of buses that eventually scooped us up, and took us on a very circuitous route to Harvard Square.

Despite a great deal of effort, we never found out what happened to the person under the train in the Harvard Square station.