I've tried a couple of times to get started writing today and am feeling challenged to get the writing engine revving. But they say the more you practice writing, the better you become. (That's not a set-up for an amazing blog post. Promise.) So, as I type with the sun streaming through the window and having enjoyed a walk with the dogs on a balmy-compared-to-19-degrees-earlier-this-week day, I'm going to express my gratitude that I don't live in Buffalo, NY where they are simply being hammered by snow.
Snow is pretty, say, on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, or over New Year's when ensconced at a mountain cabin for the weekend. I'm sure snow is less pretty when it's three, four, five or six feet high, or when you have to give birth to a child in a fire department because you can't make it to the hospital, or when your French doors cave in due to the pressure of the snow and you have to barricade them with your treadmill, or when you open the front door and all you see is snow. (I have no idea what you do in such a situation. Hopefully there's another way out.)
I cannot imagine. I think it would be interesting to experience such a phenomenon, but it no doubt grows old quickly and is dangerous for many.
When the weather turns wintry, I'm not a fan of living north of the Mason-Dixon line. I hope someday to enjoy an extended break in a warmer climate during the winter. But for today? I'd say I'm pretty content to be living right here in Pennsylvania and not in Buffalo.
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