Snow Day

When I decided to move from the snow-covered northeast to the south nearly 20 years ago, I made a promise to myself: never shovel snow again. That promise was forged in frustration during my last winter in Boston—a winter that delivered a relentless 100 inches of snow. The breaking point came during a typical snowstorm while I was living in the attic apartment of my parents’ house. I was asked to move my car, a rear-wheel-drive Lexus GS, so someone else could park in the driveway. Ours was one of the few houses on the street with a driveway, so parking was a precious commodity.

What followed was a test of patience and resolve. As I attempted to back the car into the driveway, it got stuck in the snow—half of it in the street, blocking traffic. I was heated. There I was, in the biting cold, shoveling snow in a fit of anger, muttering under my breath, “Never again. I’m never shoveling snow again.” The moment I freed the car and stepped back inside, I made a decision: this would be my last winter in Boston. I circled a date on the calendar for spring, and from that moment, my plan to leave was set in motion.

Fast forward nearly two decades, and here I am in the south, where snow is a rare guest that doesn’t overstay its welcome. It melts quickly, disappearing before it becomes a chore. But today? Today is an exception—a Friday snow day with about 4-5 inches of powder covering the ground. As I stood by my window, coffee in hand, I contemplated breaking that old promise to myself. Should I clean the driveway? A crooked smile crossed my face as I remembered those words: never again.

But I found a loophole. Instead of a shovel, I grabbed a large broom. Sweeping isn’t shoveling, right? Loophole intact, promise preserved. After tidying up the driveway, I rewarded myself with a cigar and a hot cup of coffee in my garage. As I settled into my chair, I noticed two of my neighbors building snowmen in their front lawns. Their laughter carried across the crisp air as they shouted back and forth about whose snowman was better.

“Yo, that’s why I love my neighborhood!” I yelled to them, laughing as they waved back. Watching grown men channel their inner kids, competing in a snowman showdown, brought a certain warmth to the day that had nothing to do with the coffee in my hands.

There’s something profoundly human about moments like this—simple, fleeting reminders to let go of life’s weight and embrace joy for its own sake. To live in the present, to smile without reason, to find magic in something as temporary as snow.

As I puffed on my cigar, I felt a sense of peace wash over me. Everything felt… right. Cue up Radiohead’s “Everything in Its Right Place.” Today, it truly was.