“Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.” — Charles Dudley Warner
The projections first showed seven inches of snow for Tuesday, twelve to eighteen for Wednesday, and a final dumping of seven on Thursday to round out the monster storm, which they named Olive.
“I think Oswald would be a better name,” Ricka said. “It sounds meaner.”
Mean or not, we all stayed in. Husband’s days off matched those of the proposed blizzard, and my supervisor ordered us employees to work from home. I pattered away on my laptop, waiting for the onslaught of flakes. Expectation pulsed through my system. I glanced out the window and clicked on weather updates. Winds of up to 40 miles per hour would whip up the fallen inches, they warned. While Tuesday night had dropped a little precipitation, the scene on Wednesday morning was quiet.
I left my workspace at the dining room table, refilled my coffee cup, and joined Husband and Flicka in the living room.
“You know the 42% you see right now?” Flicka said, pointing at the weather forecast on my phone’s screen. “It doesn’t mean the chance of it snowing is 42%. It's the percentage of area—your area, in this case—where it will snow.”
“What?” I frowned. “I’ve never heard that before in my life.”
“The chance of snow is always 50/50. It either will snow or it won’t.”
“That can’t be true,” I said. “But let’s ask the resident meteorologist.”
My man’s years in Aeronautical Studies at the University of North Dakota way back when garnered him an almost meteorology minor, so he would know. He looked up from his phone.
“Yeah, that’s not right,” he said to Flicka.
We tossed around reported theories and amended forecasts. I went back to work to join a virtual team meeting. I gazed out the window. I sat through a dental insurance Zoom presentation. I checked weather updates.
Look, work, check, work. Up, down, up, down. Flames in the fireplace bounced in anticipation too, mirroring my movements.
I read of whiteout conditions, wicked gusts, biting cold. But it didn’t look that bad. Weren’t the winds supposed to buffet our house and great clots of snow smack our windows? It seemed mild—at least from our vantage point.
I’m underwhelmed so far, a friend texted. Me too, I texted back.
But then I woke up Thursday morning and looked outside.
The End.
So, how’s the weather at your place?
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*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka