The Blizzard that Wasn't (but it inspired a poem)

The Great Blizzard of 2010

I

Bore down on the Doppler coming from the Arctic

by way of the Pacific ocean. Oregon and Washington

held in its clutches, why was anyone on the road?

Utah knew for hours it was coming. Coming in color

so vibrant and vicious we had never seen them

blossom across our monitors and TV screens—never mind

the weatherman’s tie. We don’t know what his wife

was thinking or if she was thinking when she kissed

him square on the lips and sent him off into the cold

cruel world wrapped in atmosphere, thick as tin foil.

That’s what it was. A tin foil sky. Thick and gray

and cooking us all in a nervousness we hadn’t felt

since we were children woken up by the wind

in the willow branches just outside the window

asking us to comfort them through another lonely

night gazing up at a sliver of the moon. But, even

the moon could not show silver through that mess

of cloud cover. It was the sun. A white, construction

paper circle above our houses where the swamp

coolers stand taller than the chimneys. We could

stare right at it, like a walnut in our fingers, and

we knew the weatherman had been right. We needed

to get the children inside and find the flashlights.

We would eat boiled eggs for dinner, cold. Cold

as the air outside as it snuck through the open

millimeters around the doors and window panes.

Cold as the ice already forming on the road.

Cold as our hearts felt, making us nauseous

as we wondered if there would be a car in the driveway

before the storm reached us or if we would

have to brave the nightmare alone. With our

little ones, a table tent, candles, and stories

about the tempests we’d seen before (though

they were nothing like this was going to be).

Look it up on Wiki. The encyclopedia knows
a blizzard when it sees one. It knows when to use

adjectives – severe, low, strong, heavy – how

do you stand up in 40mph wind with 12 inches

of snow coming at you all at once? Hunker down.

Hunker hard. Hunker. Haukr. Huk-a. We are ready

like a Scottish hawk or a “clockin’ hen” to borrow

a note from Jamieson. Bring on the battle.

At least we heard the warning.

II

A blue sky banner held up by the front line
brought us all to our senses. Our own Wasatch
mountains, a vast rock of snow and ice extended,
could do nothing but knock the wind out of this thing
and send it back at us again like a swirling
boomerang. But there was the blue above us
and we knew the clouds couldn’t last for long.
They marched in like an army. A great wave
of gray. There were the last phone calls.
The measured breathing as we measured the
speed of the clouds against the water tower
to the North. Still visible. Visible still.
The sun had gone again and sudden snow swirled.
Inside we waited, still on our haunches.
Watching the Labyrinth on the big screen
with surround sound knowing the wind would be
loudest when the power was gone and we
were left to our own imaginations and David
Bowie. Dance magic dance. Was the song
we were singing so loud the clouds heard us
and joined in. The snowflakes fell like faerie
dust on our garden. Dry and light and thin
as mist in the summertime. Little girls dressed
in heavy boots and hats against the cold
walked hand in hand into the white,
eating glitter. Shivering warm in the gift.
The fear had gone out of them in the magic
of the blizzard that loved to dance so much
it forgot to be a blizzard. Snowflakes falling
pretty under streetlights, blinking like starlets
on a stage. No camera can capture this feeling
of light and energy exchanged cold between
child and sky. It can only be tasted on the tongue.
Wide and wild to be liberated in the flavor
of ice—the purest element suspended in
crystal. Melted on cheeks. Loved. Warmed.
Returned to the storm that wasn’t as treacherous
as we thought it would be.