Precipitous Circumstances

Today's Track: Riders on the Storm--Creed (Woodstock ‘99)

I awoke this morning, blissfully unaware of the proximity of mortal danger. I stumbled from my bed in the customary manner, partook of copious amounts caffeine, and, almost as an afterthought, switched on my faithful if mostly useless television. And lucky thing, too!
After a brief internal debate over which network’s talking heads I was least incensed with this week, I settled on a CBS affiliate. In slightly less time than it took the picture to resolve itself on the screen, I had utterly tuned out the broadcast, after my usual fashion of television viewing. I was just settling into a contemplation of a rather cryptic notation I’d spotted on the back of my hand when I heard it...
*beeeep-beeeep-beeeep...beeeep-beeeep-beeeep*
Falling on my consciousness was a familiar, ominous and somehow smugly self-righteous sound, the digital equivalent of the small man with the enormous, toothy grin helping his fellow theatre-goers to the exits after a ’mysterious’ cry of “fire!”. It could only mean one thing. Sure enough, across the bottom of my TV screen crawled an Important Message from my friends at the Federal Bureau of Meteorological Panic.
At first, I thought it might be something with which the populace was capable of coping, such as another hole in the ozone layer, or perhaps nuclear winter. But I was totally unprepared for the catastrophic threat borne in that little scrolling blue bar. I dropped bonelessly back into my seat, struggling to get a grip on my mind. Surely, I thought, there must be some mistake. Maybe someone’s idea of a prank. This couldn’t be happening.
The dreaded Winter Storm Watch...
Snow. Snow was coming.

Ok, so those of you who live in geographic regions where snow--real snow--actually occurs are thoroughly confused. Let me clarify. You see, the Masked Logician resides in the southeastern portion of the United States, a quaint bit of geography mostly known for humidity and Baptists. In any given year, the skies above my homeland are far more likely to be darkened by great marauding swarms of Mickey Rooney-sized mosquitoes than by winter snow clouds. Alright, I suppose that’s selling the point a bit glibly. We typically record, in the course of an average winter, cumulatively, almost as much snow as the typical Minnesota resident manages to track onto his or her carpet after a trip out to shovel the driveway.
Ah, how I remember my first childhood snow...
Being warned not to catch any of the flakes on my tongue, lest there not be enough to go around. Ehillarating snowball fights that went on for hours, each intense volley followed by a mad scramble through the neighborhood, hoping to collect enough snow to construct the next snowball before the opposition.
Gawking at hapless motorists--true natives, these--as their cars slalomed wildly through the streets, seemingly knocked off course again and again by the impact of individual snowflakes.
Yes, those were good times. But as an adult, I have been forced to give over my innocent notions, and now recognize snow for the deadly serious business it is.
I have it on good authority that things operate quite a bit differently elsewhere, but here, snow means that schools are abandoned, businesses close their doors, and utility service becomes about as reliable as an Independent Presidential candidate. Travel is next to impossible--we have plow trucks and the like, but trust me, they are merely decorative. Every supermarket, general store, gas station, every consumer outlet of any description is rapidly flooded with previously normal humans who have temporarily become gibbering lunatics, mobbing and mauling one another in search of the staples of survival (the primary ones being milk, bleach, and white bread, for no readily apparent reason). There are few things in heaven or earth more humbling than witnessing a charming, blue-haired old lady falling into mortal combat over a roll of toilet paper; large, sensible handbag--no doubt with a well-worn Bible nestled inside, next to dozens of pictures of her grandchildren--finding new life as an instrument of war.
There is nothing like a bracing winter snow to reduce the population of the southern U.S. to some bizarre sort of Tennessee Williams parody of Lord of the Flies.
That’s all fine and good for the great unwashed, I say. But, being myself of a far more rational bent, I believe I will stay at home and read a book instead.

Now that I think about it, though, I can’t quite remember if I have any milk left...