A Walker in the Suburbs

You’d think we were preparing for Snowmageddon: The Sequel. The sidewalks are crunchy with “pretreatment,” plows are at the ready and cheerful meteorologists discuss the latest models with barely restrained glee.

I first heard about this storm last week when I bought a cup of tea from Betty in the cafeteria. “Keep your eye on Tuesday. There’s a storm brewing for Tuesday.” At that point no one else I knew had heard about this potential nor’easter. I’m not sure where Betty got her information, but she was spot on.

Since then I’ve heard much talk about winter weather advisories and storm warnings, states of emergency declared in southern states and dire predictions for the northeast. Once again, it looks like D.C. will miss the brunt of it. But until it does, we can look and listen and pretend.

The snow hype is better than the snow.

This snow comes in with a roar and a whoosh, as a fierce wind blows from the west and the flakes fly sideways. Last week’s deluge was relentless but silent. Today’s is loud and dramatic. It’s a storm with more sound than picture, the kind where pioneers perished a few yards from their cabins because they’d lost their way. I have a sudden hankering to read Willa Cather, to tie a rope from our house to our car. I think of the power of the white out, not the correction fluid (which covered mistakes and offered a fresh start back before computers made it almost obsolete), but the white out of nature, which obscures and overwhelms.

As I sit here writing and listening to the sound of the wind and the trees beating against our windows, I hear another sound, a sound we’ve been waiting for these last five days but haven’t heard. It’s a snow plow, or, more accurately, a front-end loader, clearing our street (finally) in the midst of a blizzard. It’s taking a while, since neighbors are offering coffee and breakfast and brownies. (We’re a congenial lot here in Folkstone.) And it seems a fruitless occupation since the snow is blowing back over the road as quickly as they can move it away. Then again, maybe it’s just wishful thinking. On some level I want to stay marooned. I was getting used to the isolation. The white out is fine by me.

This morning a neighbor called us early. She lives on the corner and was going to the store to load up on groceries. Did we need anything? It’s been four days since we’ve been out in the world so I asked for milk and bread and tea. Our food supplies may be dwindling, but neighborliness is in abundant supply.
So, too, is foot travel. With more than two feet of snow clogging our unplowed street and another ten to twenty inches on the way, hoofing it is the only way to go. So into our supercharged suburban world comes a much needed pause. We stroll, we trudge, we slip and slide. We take in the white world at three miles an hour.

Our wide suburban street has shrunk to a single footpath. Why do I find a curious freedom in this restriction? It is, of course, an adventure and won’t wear well with time, but right now I find it liberating. This little path reminds me of how many major highways began, first a beaten trail, then a dusty lane, next a paved road that’s widened to two lanes, then four, then eight. What began as a part of the landscape ends up destroying the landscape. I often try to imagine what our neighborhood was like a hundred years ago. The snow has made this easier to do.