Yesterday as I was teaching my weekly seminar at Mount Holyoke College, we all had our eyes to the windows. The latest weather report called for snow, perhaps as much as four inches, to come through in the late afternoon.
Hearing the forecast, my students slumped in disgust. Leslie said she had seen flurries on her walk to class. “Well, maybe not flurries,” she said reaching for any optimism she could muster. “Flurry-like. Almost flurries.” I grumbled at the thought of almost flurries and told my crew that at the first sign of a full-fledged storm, we were packing up. In twenty years of teaching at Mount Holyoke, I have made too many white-knuckle drives over The Notch—our steep and winding path through the Holyoke range.
Frankly, we are all sick of it. The winter of 2011 has been brutal. Even as beleaguered as we are, we’re not quite ready to herald the beginning of spring. In New England, we’ve been slapped in the face too many times in March and even April with monumental snowstorms. Personally, I never take my shovel and ice scraper out of the car until income tax day. It’s my policy.
I’m happy to report that yesterday’s snow in Western Massachusetts never materialized. Somewhere over upstate New York, things petered out and we had only those “almost flurries” that Leslie spotted. My “Art of Fact” class on writing nonfiction about women’s lives proceeded apace. We finished our discussion of Laurel Thatcher Ulrich’s A Midwive’s Tale and all made it home without facing ice and skids.
This morning I’m breathing a sigh of relief and allowing myself a modicum of ease. Maybe we’ve seen the last of what Mother Nature has dished out for this winter.
I thought you’d like to see where we stand. Let me know if it’s almost time look for sprouting daffodils.