by Beppie Harrison
It’s the Eleventh Day of Christmas here. An odd sort of celebration . . .
I’m sitting in my living room by the fire watching snow blow past the windows in waves. Here on the Massachusetts coast south of Boston a blizzard is roaring around us. Fortunately we’re about five miles west of the ocean, so the gigantic wave warnings are not a personal concern, although we’ve got friends who live a lot closer, and we’re only halfway through the projected period of the storm.
As always seems to happen, high tide is higher than usual, as the moon is still close to full, so they have suggested voluntary evacuation for those oceanside, with emergency housing provided. And they say that driving will be practically impossible—one road through the famous Big Dig tunnels has been closed as the snow piled up at its exit to the open road, slightly uphill and the snow so high cars and truck were unable to drive over it. Houses in Scituate, our closest small town, are being pummeled with wave-carried blocks of ice. Front Street, the main drag, is flooded and the National Guard is out. Hope those living on the two roads going down the spit of land leading out to the lighthouse between the harbor and the open ocean evacuated as advised.
Hey nonny nonny and a great shout to all!
Our experience of it, out in the far suburbs is somewhat less dramatic. We’re all inside with a healthy wood fire (and more wood stored in the garage) and full power still on. Fortunately the people who sold the house to us had equipped it with a full-house generator run on natural gas, so if we lose power—as seems most likely, and many others have—we’re in excellent shape and the furnace will continue. The dogwood trees, with many tiny branches, are lovely, snowladen with each tiny branch covered and visible
Tomorrow the snow and wind will be moving up the Atlantic coast, and we will be at peace. Except that the single-digit temperatures that tormented us for the days since Christmas will be coming back, dipping into below-zero (only -3 or -4) temperatures to boot. Our poor furnace that struggled to keep us in the low 60s when the thermostat is set on 70 degrees during the 10-day stretch of frigid cold might find it easier when the exterior of the house has warmed up (some?) during yesterday and today when we were in the tropical mid- to high 30s.
The wind is howling down the chimney. It all feels very Little House on the Prairie. A new adventure. But when I write about the winter during Regency times—it was, after all, during the late stages of the Little Ice Age—I’ll have all sorts of new experience to draw on!
And it’s beautiful. Really beautiful.