Every time it snows, I think we’ve been cut off from the world. Even though I can easily see our neighbors’ houses around us, just where they were yesterday, and the day before.
Mom always panicked at the snow, as if it were something new and surprising. She’d lived in this city all her life, though. Evidently, this is an attitude shared by many of my fellow Cincinnatians: snow means frantic rushes to the grocery stores to buy out huge stocks of staples. Right. Suddenly having pounds of flour, sugar, stacks of canned vegetables — that’ll get us through the horrid dark days of snow-enclosement.
You gotta love it. We’re not living on the Great Plains in the middle of a blizzard, and it’s not the 1880’s, folks! Worst comes to worst, we can hike a comfortable mile to Hyde Park Square and several restaurants.
But Mom’s panic comes back like a habit. Maybe I’ll head down to Kroger’s to watch the frantic shoppers. Ought to be good for some light entertainment.
Playing: Suite Bergamasque \ No. 4 \ Passepied from the album “Snowflakes Are Dancing” by Isao Tomita
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