When I was growing up, snow was always a wondrous proposition.
It instantly summoned thoughts of sledding, making snowmen and snow angels, throwing snowballs, and romping around a Curries & Ives-like wintry landscape of white powder that was way less toxic than coke.
We actually used to look forward to snowstorms!
But nowadays, the mention of snow sends people into a panic not seen since War of the Worlds.
People start hoarding food, flashlights, and thermal underwear, and prepare to lock themselves indoors until the streets are dryer than an old prostitute’s hooch.
The playground of my youth has become an apocalyptic minefield of terror for boomers, who view snow as a crystallized acid rain pouring destruction onto their comfort level.
It’s The Night of the Living Dead crossed with a Roland Emmerich disaster film.
Yes, I know some storms are worse than others, and there were actual casualties from this one, which is tragic.
I know there were warnings to stay indoors except in case of an emergency.
I know death be not proud.
But can’t we find a middle ground between self-protection and wonder?
I rode my bike all through it, for chrissake.