I remember being young in Pittsburgh on days like this when my mother — who grew up in Boston — would look out the window and turn to me: ‘I hate it when it snows up,’ she would say with disdain.
Today was one of those days, where the snow felt mostly meaningless, although I did have to shovel twice. I suppose it could have been worse, however; at least the sun wasn’t out. I once had a friend in college — and although I went to Cornell, it didn’t snow as much as you’d expect — who would always say to me: ‘Matt, why is it snowing if the sun is out?’ Some questions, it seems, are better asked than answered.
In these times, however, I don’t like to complain too much about anything, given that I at least have a job, and — knock on wood — don’t have to face the prospect of taking a trip to ‘Job Search Central’ like so many millions of others.
I admired the north side 34th Street, between Madison and Fifth.
Back in the office, I took a stroll to the east side of the building, where I wished that I lived in a penthouse apartment with twin discus-thrower statues. I felt confident that if I had such a space, I could improve it markedly with potted alpines; I’m not sure it’s in my destiny to live in a penthouse apartment on 34th Street, though.
Back in Washington Heights, the sky was blue and the trees were dusted.
As much as I’m ready for winter to end, I couldn’t help but admire the stark beauty of the branches against the purple sky.
Back at the house, I had to shovel away a few inches of slush, which had accumulated since this morning. But here, too, the trees were beautiful and the streetlights resembled distant suns.
On Broadway, the medians were also coated with snow, as though they were a snapshot of another era, but the wet pavement hissed with the endless stream of traffic.
