Surviving Snowzilla

Let history record that on Friday, January 22, 2016, flurries of snow began to fall on the Washington, D.C., metropolitan region as the noon hour approached. The start of the storm caused little alarm and even less panic.

Nope. Alarm and panic had set in long before flurries first descended upon the Nation’s Capital. Citizens of the Mid-Atlantic region were well into Peak Freak Out days before the storm would arrive. About a week out, scientists had identified a big, slow moving weather system approaching and began predicting the arrival of an epic storm.  Headlines proclaimed that the Storm of the Century was on the way. Donald Trump appeared and vowed to MAKE WINTER GREAT AGAIN. Immediately, the 9.3 million people who live in the D.C. metro area made a collective run on local stores. Shelves were stripped of bread, milk, batteries, booze, and other staples. Even lactose intolerant singles who lived alone were buying three gallons of milk just because it seemed the right thing to do. People who didn’t own pets got swept up in the excitement and bought fifty-pound bags of dry dog food because they seemed to be going fast.

Even before the Great Blizzard of 2016 arrived, thanks to a poll conducted by the Washington Post, the pending storm had a name: Snowzilla (Snomageddon and Snowpocalypse had both been used in 2010, during the previous Storms of the Century). Naming winter weather events seems strange to me. But OK. Not to brag, but I’ve seen winter before. Back in Wyoming and Idaho and eastern shadows of the Cascade Mountains in Washington state, we always called major winter weather events “snow.”  Or, if we were attempting to lug a snow blower up a ladder to remove snow from the roof of our house to keep it from collapsing, the “god-damned snow.” In any event, here in D.C. we now had a name – Snowzilla – for the beast about to devour us.

It’s been more than a week since Snowzilla’s rampage. Those mid-Friday flurries increased in intensity and continued through Friday night and all of Saturday. Over the next eighteen hours 24 inches of snow accumulated at our home in Bethesda. Other parts of the area had even more. The street in front of our house wasn’t plowed until Wednesday. Many workplaces were shut down for the first part of the week following. The Montgomery County Public School District (motto: OH MY GOD! SNOW! WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!) remained shut down for the entire week (plus the previous Friday based simply on the forecast of snow).

We fared just fine out our house. We had plenty of food and Irish whiskey as well as a box of batteries, flashlights, headlamps, candles, and matches set out just in case. We also have gas fireplaces and gas range. We managed not to lose power during the storm, but we were prepared and we were relatively confident that we would neither freeze nor starve. The bigger danger came from all the forced family time. That Cabin Fever shit is real. My wife, Carissa, and I both attempted to work from home, negotiating (we don’t call it fighting in our home) for work space and yelling at kids to STFU because mommy is on a conference call. Also, ProTip: The Shining isn’t a good family movie night choice when you’re trapped in your home by a winter snow storm. But we survived Snowzilla and the experience made us closer and stronger. Or left us with lasting, crippling, emotional scars. Who knows?

I also learned that D.C. as a community is not that chill about adverse winter weather. Not only did people generally lose their shit in the days leading up to the storm, thanks to the disproportionate number of journalists, editors, producers, as well as cable and network news teams and anchors, our local weather story became a worldwide event. Two feet of snow in eighteen hours will cause a mess in a community of 9.3 million people. Especially in a region that prudently does not maintain a snow removal fleet capable of handling this kind of an extreme event. No shame in shutting down at least for some time when that happens. I’m complicit in feeding the hype machine because, like millions of others, I contributed to the social media blizzard of photos and updates about my local weather event. All the HEY LOOK AT US stuff can seem rather precious, I suppose. Especially if, say, you're in Torrington, Wyoming, and it’s forty below, wind is blowing 70 mph, and your truck won’t start. And you're watching 24/7 coverage on CNN of a storm that weather modeling predicts will hit D.C. within the next 72 hours. Yes, it's a bit much. Maybe we can maintain our composure next time, D.C. Maybe act like we’ve done this before?

The public reaction to D.C.’s snow drama taught me another lesson, this one about myself. I hold myself out be a refugee, living in urban exile on the east coast while my heart is back in Idaho. Snowzilla was one of those shared experiences that bring communities together. My next door neighbor baked us cookies to say thanks for shoveling her walk. Down the street, neighbors used snow blowers and shovels to make sure a pregnant woman would have access to the nearest plowed road. Groups of kids organized sledding parties and sleepovers. 

So when friends and family from North and South Dakota, Colorado, Minnesota, Wyoming, Idaho, and elsewhere snickered out loud about our “storm” and compared them to their winter storm experiences, I was surprised to feel a little bit defensive. Especially since I also enjoy mocking the winter hardiness of east coasters. Yet it’s one thing for me to call one of my brothers a pedantic asshole and another for you to agree with me, which would require me to engage in any and all means necessary to defend my family's honor (depending on which brother we were talking about). Likewise, Snowzilla may be an over-hyped drama queen, but she’s my over-hyped drama queen. So don’t be one-upping my Storm of the Century with tales of how the schools didn’t even shut down for your Storm of the Century and the kids all wore shorts to the bus stop.

Someday I will return to Mountain Standard Time for good. Meanwhile, little by little, I’m realizing that my residence in exile is feeling a little bit like home. Or at least a place I'm willing to defend.