The Snowstorm

The Snowstorm

I live in the snow belt, an unhappy place where lake effect snow pummels those unfortunate to live there.  The latest forecast is not good, up to two feet starting in a few hours.  I am not too happy about that.  I have noticed that the older I get, the less I enjoy the cold, snowy weather.

My hip is killing me, another side effect of the cold.  Luckily, acetaminophen usually helps.  Some days, I eat those things like M&Ms.  And even though I don’t drink much beer anymore, I make sure not to drink on the days I swallow pills.  They don’t work well together.

I am sitting at the library.  I had a doctor’s appointment this morning.  Everything looks good; I am doing my best to ensure that.  I told my doctor how much I love beer and how little I am consuming.  He readily agreed that is tough and that he felt my pain.  Such is life here in this section of Hillbilly Land.

The snow is already starting to fall.  I believe it wasn’t supposed to appear for a few hours.  A small collection of the local homeless is at the front of the building.  I thought there would be more people here.  As I pulled in, I saw the yelping man walking down the middle of the road.  He was walking toward the post office, another temporary place of refuge.  They had to start closing the lobby at night because the homeless were using the entrance for a warm place to sleep.  Of course, one corner was picked as the communal bathroom…hence the closure.

I am not sure what all these folks will do tonight when the storm hits.  I guess they just disappear into the landscape, doing their best to stay warm.  There are a couple churches within easy walking distance.  Maybe one or two of them remain open during inclement weather.  Wouldn’t that be nice if they did?

I will be home in a few hours, where it will be nice and warm.  I will put on my zebra snuggly, situate my lap desk, and get to work.  Perhaps I will edit this post.  If inspiration strikes, I will write more.  If things really line up, I might even write something worth reading.

Am I far enough along?  Is the lede sufficiently buried?  Can I finally get to the point if I indeed have one?  I think so.  I got a text the other day.  The rumor is that a kid I went to kindergarten with is dead.  Was it cancer?  From what I can piece together, that seems to be the case.  It appears to have been a long battle.  Scott didn’t lose the fight, as people often exclaim when someone dies from cancer.  The outcome was a tie.  The tumors in his body died along with him, so he didn’t lose.  The result was a despicable draw.

The snowfall is intensifying.  Oddly, people are clearing out of the library.  I find that a little confusing.  Sure, some people are trying to get home before the weather worsens.  But what about those with no home?  What are they in a hurry for?  They must know something I do not.

I have struggled to get more information about my kindergarten friend, Scott Miggo.  I have learned that if you are not Facebook friends with someone, then you might not get to see all their posts.  I do not have a Facebook account, but one of my pen names does.  I have been using his (or her) account to do some reconnaissance.  I can’t find much, but the friend who sent me the message assures me that Scott’s cousin announced his death on her Facebook page.

I have been searching for obituaries about Scott.  I haven’t found anything yet.  Perhaps he won’t have one.  I don’t believe I will.  It is a personal choice, isn’t it?  I have trouble seeing how a few lines in a newspaper can adequately sum up a life.  For some, it is more than enough; for others, not so much.

Hearing about Scott’s death has shifted my troubles into sharper focus.  I have written extensively about my worries concerning aging and the struggle to complete all my projects.  I don’t want to drop dead until my stuff is done.  I don’t know if Scott had ticked off his bucket list or not.  I certainly hope he did.  And that goes for all of us.

I have some very old memories of Scott.  We were awarded a Blue Ribbon for a science fair project we completed in grade school.  I can’t remember exactly when, but I think it was sixth grade.  That was a long, long time ago.

I mention the project because I remember when I went to Scott’s house to work on it.  I have been thinking, and I can’t remember what we did.  I have no recollection at all of the specifics of the project.  I just remember that I threw up at Scott’s house after his mom gave me a burger that disagreed with me.  And there it is, my memory of our Blue Ribbon science project.  The only thing I am sure of is that it wasn’t a volcano.

Sure, we lost touch, something easy to do in a pre-social media world.  The last time I saw him was shortly after high school graduation.  He left for parts unknown as I started down my own path.  I did see his mom 15 or 20 years ago, and she remembered me.  Who could forget, right?  As for Scott, I remember hearing about a divorce 35 or 40 years ago, and that is about it.

My concentration was just broken by the yelping man.  He must have pulled a U-turn on the street.  He is back and letting his presence be known.  If I were in charge of things, someone would help that guy.  Whatever his destiny, it is not looking too good.  Professional intervention seems necessary if this man is to avoid disaster.  I am sure such a thing requires money, so he is left alone while those who bother to consider his circumstance hope for the best.

I see that the snow has temporarily let up.  This might be my chance to make good my escape.  I have so much work to do, and I am better off doing serious things at home.  The library isn’t conducive to the manufacture of the great American novel.  I am not sure my library at home is either, but…

The news about Scott was not welcome or expected.  I still don’t know where all the time went.  All we get is a blip of deep time to do all the things we want or are compelled to.  The unfairness of it all makes little sense.  Viewing this in the context of the indifference of nature towards its occupants makes perfect sense.

In the middle of the last sentence, many library employees sprung into action.  The yelping man has accelerated the tempo and magnitude of his yelping.  The employees are meeting and hopefully forming a plan.  And finally, another man from the computer section joined them.  Now I am forced to sit here out of morbid curiosity to see what happens.  Is there someone they can call to get this man some help?  Perhaps not.  Maybe they need to put their heads together to figure out the best plan of action.  They can’t kick him out, can they?  Can they send him into the cold, into a severe snowstorm?  I am in no position to give advice or offer an informed opinion.  I’ll just keep typing until I see some activity.

The employee caucus has broken up, and the yelping man casually walks around as if nothing unusual has happened.  The brain trust failed him again.

The yelping man has taken off his jacket and is walking toward me.  I would prefer not to engage with him.  Perhaps if I look at my keyboard, he will veer off into the Mystery section.  He turned 180 degrees and headed toward the Teen section.  Luckily, no one is over there.  He can pace all he wants and won’t disturb anyone.  I am sure he will be back this way soon enough.  The library is not that big.

I have spent the last few moments looking around and do not spy a single muse.  They must be busy; I hear we now have 8,000,000,000 people roaming around this planet.  That is a lot of folks.  How many muses are there, anyway?  I wouldn’t think there would be enough to go around.  Maybe I reached my lifetime quota with The Athena Chapters and all the nonsense involved with that fiasco.  The muses were paying me lots of attention back then.  Others must need them now.

I just searched for more information about Scott, and I once again came up empty.  No obituaries or death notices are popping up anywhere.  I am just sitting here deciding what to do about this brewing storm; it seems to be trying its best to conjure up something for us.

I am, perhaps, procrastinating.  I don’t want to get up and go out in the cold.  Imagine those people here who will stay out in it all night.  I can’t find any web pages about Scott, and I am concerned about the coming storm.  The analogy is a little too on point, but I am a victim of circumstance.

{Author’s Note: I just took a small break from my typing.  I picked up my phone and tapped on the Wordle icon, solving the puzzle on the fifth try.  The word was muses.  That is a true story.}

I will end this post about my old friend Scott with a Harvard story.  I remember having long talks with my adviser in his office at The Peabody Museum.  I miss our conversations as much as I miss that museum and that campus.  One day we were arguing over ethnographic analogy, a technique archaeologists often employ to get insight into lesser-known cultures.  As I voiced my displeasure over the method’s shortcomings, Bob (my adviser) told me that if I didn’t like using analogy I could use something else.  Slightly confused, I remember asking him what that could be.  He smiled and replied, “metaphor.” We had that conversation about 35 years ago, and I still shake my head when I think of the difference between analogy and metaphor.

I leave it to you to decide if any appropriate analogies, or even metaphors, are utilized in this post about Scott and his death.  After all, I am a distracted and uninspired writer trying his best to stay warm and dry.