Herban Sprawl

18 December 2009

The Star City is expecting a weather event. It’s coming up from the Gulf, so the chance for ‘participation’ has increased to the point where even having Elvis as a greeter at the Wally did not tame the masses who decimated the milk, eggs and bread shelves.

I know how absolutely insane this must sound to my Midwestern compatriots, but this, my friends, is the way it works down here in the Appalachians. If we get a forecast for snow and it looks to be coming from y’all’s territory, we pretty much blow it off down here in the Roanoke River Valley bowl. That kind of stuff doesn’t make it past the Greenbrier resort. We might add an extra bottle of wine to the shopping cart, but we don’t get worried.

But tell us the storm will be coming up from the Big Easy, and we go into a frenzy. Suddenly it’s the Weather Channel 24/7, switching to Robin Reed in the middle of a football game (no lie!) and checking Kevin Myatt’s weather blog at roanoke.com on a more or less constant basis. Right now the percentages are high, but it’s the other stuff that we are aware of that cause us to get ready.

It’s cold out. I popped out while the House Goddess was finishing up with her magic act in order to procure soup meat, celery and carrots. The Food Lahn (Lion for those who need a translation) was jammed, and the milk shelves were lookin’ puny. Every single line had a checker and there were managers bagging like their hands were on fire. I nabbed the last of the soup meat, and I swear there had been a pile of it the day before yesterday. The guy in the meat department told me to get it then because snow was in the forecast and there’d be nothing left by the weekend. I made him into a clairvoyant and trundled out with four pounds of good shanks and a couple of oxtails for fun.

The line went quickly, as the checkers spent a lot less time being distracted by the Food Lion dictum to greet each customer as s/he walks in the door. Thank heaven. It’s a stupid policy to start with and I’d rather my checker pay attention to the business at hand. If Food Lion wants people greeted at the door, let ‘em hire Elvis like Wally did.

Anyway, like I said, it was cold, so I lifted my big Eyetalian schnozzola to the skies to see if I could smell snow. Not a whiff. My arthritic knees are not proving to be accurate barometers, but the sinus above my left eye is Old Reliable. I heard elderly ladies in the store sharing their barometric anatomy stories, and believe me, there is nothing funnier than two ladies, all made up and sensibly attired for cold weather, comparing notes on which is better for snow (”Oh, my right foot from after that accident I had.”) or rain (”Now, I’m here to tell you, my left elbow…”) and which has turned into the acid test for any major precipitation (”My sister’s back. It’s never wrong.”).

In the old days, I could always smell snow and the schnozz never lied. When people still heated with coal, there was a difference in the way the air smelled and I had only to have my dad sniff it to learn what it was like. It’s unforgettable, and old Midwesterners are really good at distinguishing between a blizzard and a light snowfall. Nowadays, it’s harder, but you can still kind of tell.

The preparation doesn’t end at the grocery store, however. I forgot to make sure we had four D batteries, so I need to have a look around, and if necessary, may have friends grab some for me on their way up from Franklin county. The batteries are for the Coleman light. The branches of our holly are loaded with berries and they are resting on the power line that runs to the house. I need to go out with the long branch trimmer and see what I can do.

There will be people cruising around town with loads of firewood in the beds of their pick-ups. Some folks hit the pet store and load up on cat litter for their sedans. I saw a guy with several bags of marshmallows, two gallons of milk and a box of cocoa. (He has the right priorities!) The rack with snow shovels was empty, and my guess is that Wally has sold every last snow toy already.

The schools let out two hours early and the line at the gas station last night was causing some impatience. I had been in line, pulled up to the pump and some ass in an SUV (that’s redundant, isn’t it…ass and SUV in the same sentence…) got mad because I pulled up when he tried to turn in. Hell, I was right on Anne’s bumper because I saw him cruising for a place where he could cut in front of someone. Don’t mess with Red Rocket, dude. So he got in line behind me (finally got some manners), and no sooner did I run the card when he got antsy. I put the nozzle in, set the little whatchamacallit to let it fill, and went to the front seat to put away the card. He revved his engine. I sauntered back. Red Rocket was thirsty and I just leaned against her, waiting. The next thing I knew, he tore off like a bat out of hell. The guy at the next pump leaned around to see what was going on. I rolled my eyes. He laughed and then we both laughed at another asshole in an SUV as SHE tried to cut off someone while blabbing on her cellphone and was thwarted by a yellow Bug.

I survived the Blizzard of ‘79 in Chicago, so snow rage is not new to me. I could teach some of these people a thing or two about what happens when somebody cleans out a parking place, barricades it with kitchen chairs, brooms and stuff when they have to leave it, and return to find you have thrown their stuff aside and taken their spot. Ooph! Not cool. You just do not take someone else’s spot like that. Bad manners and foolish to boot. You could return to find your car with no tires, shot full of bullet holes and shoved into a snowbank at the end of the block!

However, here in the Star City, we’re a bit different. The minute the snow starts, there will be gangs of guys in trucks cruising around just dying to pull cars out of ditches. It’s their winter raison d’etre, for heaven’s sake! The power will inevitably go out, there will be a huge pot of soup burbling on the stove and my Swede and I will relax with books. We will sleep in the living room in front of the gas logs with cats burrowed under the eiderdown with us. And I’ll be pleased that I remember which box has the longjohns.

Stay warm, y’all!