The Snow is Always Whiter

You know you’re in the deepest bowels of winter when you’ve got blizzards in Virginia. As January slithers out the door, it’s making sure to leave the wind howling, the clouds covering up a full moon, and plenty of snow falling all over these United States. Those of us who don’t live in Miami and San Diego are dealing with the bleak midwinter as best we can – turning up the thermostat, pulling on the gloves, sipping some hot chocolate, and cuddling beneath a blanket with a good movie on the TV.

This weekend, we decided to visit my parents in their home on the Jersey Shore, and so far we’re at 8 inches of snow and counting. Even here on the coast, there is no mercy. There are photos all over the house of family members in bathing suits and deep tans. You look at them and it feels like they’re all laughing at you, knowing that you couldn’t be further from what they were experiencing at that moment. Smooth sand between the toes, dolphins out there in the ocean, a good book in hand. Oh, if only ….

This morning, before the white stuff fell, I went for a jog out here in this wintry ghost town. The empty driveways and streets, the barren beaches, the gray skies – it seemed like a scene straight out of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. As my shoes pounded the lonely pavement and the wind smacked me in the face, my mind began searching desperately for something better to think about. So I started doing some quick math. OK, in two days it’ll be February, and that’s the shortest month. In 30 days it’ll be March, and when it’s March that means I can buy some baseball preview magazines. They’ll have spring training games by early March, and I can watch a few on TV.

In about 50 days, spring will officially begin. That week, I’ll do a couple of fantasy baseball drafts, and there might even be a few days above 50 degrees. April is about 60 days away, and April means ballgames. Real ones. By then, we might even see a few crocuses on some lawns. And my parents will be tooling around in their backyard down here, getting ready for springtime visits from their friends (who apparently choose their weekends away much better than I do).

The math, the thoughts of baseball, and the crocuses (or is it croci?) helped for a while. But soon enough, it was back to reality. The mini-golf courses and the ice cream shops were closed up for obvious reasons. The restaurants were getting ready to open for lunch, then close early on account of too much snow. The “Summer Rental” signs on folks’ lawns were flapping helplessly in the wind. I finished my run, took off my two layers of gloves, and stood for a moment in my parents’ Florida room.

This Christmas, we gave my mom a frame containing four photos from a Yankee game she’d treated us all to last summer. She and my dad have hung it up in this room, next to a recliner. There we are, sitting in the upper deck, six of us enjoying a weekday matinee game against the Orioles. Chelsea’s got a tank top on, we’re all wearing shorts, and you can see from the perspiration on our faces that it’s a hot one in the city.

As I looked at the photos, I remembered that it was so warm that day that we … well, we kind of complained a little about the weather. Grumbled to each other about how hot it was. Walked around the ballpark and stood in the bleachers at the end, where the full force of that afternoon’s sun planted itself on our reddening faces. I remember being a little happy when the game was over because there would be some air-conditioning on the subway. I recall Chelsea crying that she was too hot to walk anymore.

I can’t see the grass outside right now, beneath the half-foot of snow and all. But, you know, what they say is true. It is always greener …