So for those who've wondered, our bucolic future home is not, I repeat, not, subject to lake effect snow. It did not receive the frozen largesse bestowed upon, say, Oswego county, where I presume people had to tunnel their way out of their front doors, though I wonder to what end, because where the hell can you go when the snow's that high? I grew up in Chicago, where six foot snowfalls occasionally happen, and I remember the serene stasis I felt as a kid when I woke up to a world buried in white. (The operative thought in that last sentence is "as a kid", because I was young enough that the snow shoveling duties didn't fall to me, so the snow was fun and beautiful, not a heart attack waiting to happen.)
While my new house's snowy blanket may be relatively lightweight, the temperatures have been frigid--well below freezing for several weeks now. Again, this is an environment I lived in when I was a kid, but it's been a long, long time. By the time we go back east to close on the house in early March, it will likely be a bit warmer, but probably not much, and I hope the icy blast on skin and into lungs doesn't make us again question our sanity. I'm sure mid next winter it will, but I hope we get some perspective--glorious summer, gorgeous fall--to carry us through.
Meanwhile, I am inching towards our departure, feeling underwhelmed by the logistical implications and sad about the emotional ones. We cannot possibly spend focused time with all the many people we love here, and I can already feel, subtly, some of them pulling away as our disappearance gets nearer. This is an interesting turnabout for me, as I am the queen (or, perhaps, the empress) of disappearance and withdrawal, so to be on the receiving end, and to feel not hurt, exactly, but certainly sad, is, I am acutely aware, fair (and ironic) play.