I haven’t written in a couple weeks because all I can think about is the weather.  Unprecedented they say, and I’m struggling to stay warm like everybody else on the East Coast. But I surrender, I’m going to write about the snow even though I’m absolutely sick of it. I’m sick of looking at snow, sick of complaining about snow, and yet, after last night’s snow, there is more in tomorrow’s forecast.

It’s been all about wool and layers and a down-filled coat and my fur-line boots with the non-skid bottoms and insulated gloves. And lip balm, lots and lots of lip balm. March is only a week away; but I can’t wait for this winter to be over. At least I have neighbors who will drive me to the grocery store or home from the library or clinic if I ask. I have ventured out on the rare occasion when the sun was shining; I found the one route with the least amount of ice, although it does mean walking in the middle of the road. But thankfully, this isn't Boston; and I’m not dependent on the T to get around. The store where I work in Ptown is usually closed during the winter unless I feel like opening on the weekends. I did, for Valentine’s Day, and we had some business, but it cost me a fortune to get shoveled out and I think I’ll wait until the latest three foot drift in front of the door melts before I do it again.

In the meantime, I realized last week my behavior has been very similar to how I acted immediately after 9/11. Yes, yes, it’s just snow, no planes are crashing into buildings half a mile away, no horrible smell, no living behind barricades, but paralyzing nonetheless. I’ve been trapped in the house alone not knowing if the power was going to stay on and washing clothes by hand in the tub because carrying a basket of laundry anywhere was more or less impossible. Oh, and I’ve probably gained five pounds, which happened after 9/11 too, since all I’ve done is eat and read – Lila by Marilynne Robinson, it ends with a blizzard, Alan Cumming’s Not My Father’s Son, heart-breaking as well as heart-warming, and The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton, which was perfect for lying on the sofa for days on end. And I’m not alone. I finally went to the writer's workshop which has been cancelled the last few weeks, and not one of us in it has been writing. You'd think we would, having nothing else to do, but all of us were shut down and incapable of anything close to contemplation.

So, snow. Not life threatening unless you caught in the frigid cold, but beyond our control and utterly, completely, unquestionably boring. 

I don’t like it.

Last week, after I wrote about the blizzard, and John Lennon of course, I mentioned how the snow would probably be gone in a few days. This has not been the case, in fact it has snowed several times since plus one day of freezing rain on top of the plowed up remains of Juno that then froze into solid mounds of ice. There is snow in the forecast everyday for the following week except tomorrow, although tomorrow it will be wicked cold. It even snowed today, it was just a dusting, but slippery enough if you happened to be out being blown around by the wind.

Ah, that wind again. There’s an old joke about not bothering to have a hairdo on the Cape, and more than once I’ve had a snugly pulled-on stocking cap blow off. It makes me wonder about Melville’s whalers and other sailors braving the hazards of the open seas. Imagine. Hollywood doesn’t do them justice, it’s a miracle any of them came back home alive. One of my Irish great-grandfathers was a fisherman who drowned because he got tangled up in the rope of an anchor that had been tossed overboard. This was my father’s mother’s father but there were sailors in my mother’s family as well. Her father was a steward on the Saint Lawrence Seaway who was gone much of the year, and her three brothers were in the Navy during World War II. So it seems living close to the ocean is in my blood. But spare me boats, I’m a firm believer in not going places I can’t get to on foot.

This week, between the weather and minor surgery on Friday, I’ve been more or less house bound and have spent most of my time on the sofa reading Eleanor Catton’s brilliant novel "The Luminaries". Confusing, yes, tricky and with a complicated structure, yes, and I must confess I went online to clarify a few questions, which, as it turned out, were the same questions as everybody else’s about the supernatural aspects of the book. Almost a ghost story, it also has harrowing seafaring voyages, I could hardly put it down. 

But back in the real world, I made a trip to the grocery store after posting on Facebook that I needed a ride since the roads were not walkable and within five minutes three complete strangers had volunteered. That wouldn't have happened in New York, neighborly strangers, it's what I love about Provincetown.