“Unbelievable!” “Ridiculous!” “Disgusting!”
Such were some of the responses I heard or overheard yesterday during our more than fashionably late snowstorm. It wasn’t just a flurry or two swirling through the air in the manner that makes you wonder whether or not you actually saw snow as you glanced out the window or walked past a glass door; this was the real deal. By the time I left the doctor’s office around ten in the morning, there was already close to an inch of the white stuff. There was enough accumulation to show tire tracks on the roadway but the most obvious build-up was in the grass and on the trees. And on the bridges.
When I crossed the Missouri River back over to Kansas, there was enough slush that even those of us inclined to rush toward the rest of our day decided it made sense to slow down. In the next few miles past the bridge, I could still see ridges of snow and sleet, especially in the left hand lane on 36.
It was surreal to see the white clustered shapes of Bradford Pears nearly disappear against the sudden backdrop of snow. Fallow fields showed pure white. The northern edges of bare-branched trees starked white-boned sketches against the hills. Closer at hand, fringes of green spiked from the edges of lawns and pastures. Along the roadside, the snow/sleet mix fixed bright clumps among tufts of fescue.
By the time another hour had passed, the roofs of campus dorms and the tops of cars in the parking lots were covered with another inch of snow. Even though it began melting slowly as soon as it landed, the rate of supply greatly exceeded the rate of depletion. At least for a couple of hours. By mid-afternoon, there was little left except in the shadows and thicker clumps.
In spite of the general hostility surrounding me, I found it fascinating, a rare blending of spring’s rich colors mingled for a bit with an unwelcome extension of winter’s cold covering.
It seemed wise, though, to keep my appreciation to myself. One should be careful about antagonizing people with a celebration of something they despise. Scoffers do not often respond with delight at the sight of the penitent rejoicing in their salvation.