February in New Hampshire is not for the faint of heart, warm weather birds, or people without a good pair of boots. The polar vortex that has wreaked havoc upon our neighbors in southern climes has brought us here something a bit more routine: a good ol’ fashion winta’.
What the athletes in Sochi wouldn’t give for our winter woes. “Clear and still” as the old joke goes, “clear up to our arses and still snowing.” Eight to twelve inches once or twice a week with frigid temperatures and winds in between. Buried cars and canceled classes, frozen sidewalks and bootlaces, and enough layers of clothing to make human bare skin a forlorn summer memory.
Linguists debate about whether Eskimo tribes actually have a large number of words to describe snow, but around here the multiple descriptors are irrefutable. All in the form of adjectives and most of the plosive and voiced fricative variety.
Curse away! It will not make it melt. I choose instead, between one fresh shovel full after another, to love it for what it is: “lovely, dark and deep.”
We all have promises to keep . . . and miles to go before we sleep.