I was just a girl when the blizzard of ‘78 buried our small New England town. Tons of snow paralyzed the state, stalling freeways, closing businesses and outing power for days. I didn’t have any adult worries about how to get to work, feed my family or keep them warm. I didn’t have looming to-do lists, cram-packed meeting schedules or multiple businesses to run at a frenzied pace. All I knew was I got to stay home with my mom and dad.
We ventured into the cold with shovels in an attempt to keep the walkway clear. The snow was moist, heavy and nearly impossible for me to lift. It fell fast and thick, decreasing visibility to a few feet. It blew under my collar, inside my jacket sleeves and gloves and into my boots, biting any bare skin it could find. Within minutes, numb fingers and toes sent us retreating. Inside, the three of us huddled together under a pile of blankets on the couch, the room illuminated by candles. We shared stories, laughed and waited in the hushed darkness for the storm to pass. Outside, the wind howled and whipped snow into drifts that reached the eaves and obliterated any signs of a roadway.
When it was over, all was quiet. No power meant no hum of appliances, television or radio. Outside, a beautiful winter scene unfolded. An icy white blanket glistened in the sun. Oak and maple trees bowed under the weight, forming a snow-capped tunnel over the road. There was no distant traffic to be heard. Just silence. Blinding white landscape. Clean, crisp air. And us — with nothing to do but admire nature’s masterpiece.
Some 30 years later I find myself raising a family in the Valley of the Sun—a place where many flock to escape scenes like the one I just shared. We embrace the bragging rights, shamelessly touting our climatic bliss to our friends and relatives in other parts of the world. But, despite our location in the desert, we are surrounded with snow during the holidays. Store displays with fake flocked trees, decorations with lighted icicles, holiday movies like Frosty the Snowman, and seasonal music have us dreaming of a white Christmas, as if the holidays are somehow incomplete without the white fluffy stuff.
I would agree. Maybe not in the literal sense, but definitely metaphorically speaking. Our readers in the colder climes, and those who have experienced a major snowstorm, know what I am talking about.
Being snowed in gives us permission to slow down. It forces us to stop the frantic pace we’ve set for ourselves, guilt-free. No school, no work, the roads are closed. No computers or electronic devices to rule us, the power is out. Never mind texting or the TV—it’s time to catch up with the family face to face, without interruption. Blizzards bring entire communities together. Extreme weather heightens the awareness of our neighbors and their well-being. Meeting basic needs and helping others become our focus, and the daily frenzy is forgotten.
This issue of Green Living magazine encourages a slower pace—a pace that enables us to embrace the holiday season. Throw the get-it-done mentality and the to-do lists out the window. Experience the rewarding pleasure of helping others through one of the many charitable organizations that need your assistance. Make shopping an enjoyable stroll through a local gift shop instead of the usual seasonal sprint. Take a day trip, or take in one of the state’s many holiday festivals with family and friends.
If you start to feel stressed, give yourself permission to take a snow day.
From all of us at Green Living magazine, we wish you and your loved ones the happiest of holidays.
It may have been Dean Martin who sang it best: “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!”
Cheryl Hurd
Editor-in-Chief
Photo by Remco Wighman
