Greetings from Snowzilla land, where Mother Nature flexed her muscle long and hard, producing a historic snowfall. Thirty-two and a half inches graced my deck in less than thirty hours, certainly a record for me, a Southerner by birth, and for most of the Baltimore-Washington metro area.

It was both a beauty and a beast.

“Prepare for the unexpected,” the local authorities warned us. Just my style, I thought as I put together my plan. I had water, meals, auxiliary heat, and a confirmed snow-plow service in place. My wheelchair, phone, and laptop–and their respective backup batteries—were charged and easily accessible. A magnetic flashlight clung to the side of my bed’s wrought-iron headboard.

My biggest fear was that I would lose power. Even with my backup generator, a prolonged outage—which they were predicting—would be difficult.

Still, I was looking forward to the experience. I’d lined up those got-to-get-around-to-it-sometime projects and was prepared to dive in—either to catch up or get ahead.

I was ready to be blizzard-bound.

As I walked my dog, Tripp, up and down the driveway one final time on Friday afternoon, I could tell this was going to be a different kind of storm. Those first dainty flurries felt more like slivers of ice, stinging my face like sleet, but sticking quickly to the ground. By the evening news hour, those poor souls live-reporting had resorted to ski goggles to protect their eyes.

When I peeked outside on Saturday morning, the wispy flakes had disappeared into a whirling horizontal gale. Within hours, the view out of my bedroom window revealed what appeared to be only a dense white fog –-except for the whistle of 35 miles-per-hour winds that reminded me it was a blizzard.

It felt like I was in a snow globe where someone was testing the property of centrifugal force.

A few hours later, every door to my house was packed. I was igloo-ed in.

The tricky part was finding a place for Tripp to go the bathroom. It’s difficult to maneuver a shovel from my wheelchair so I used a dustpan to scoop out a small spot for him that was, well, let’s just say, “good enough.”

For a while.

Finally, the winds quieted. The snow stopped. And on Sunday morning when I wheeled into my sunroom, I discovered the beauty of the storm. Sunshine washed any remaining fear out of the unknown as it lit up my blanked lawn, now dancing with blinding white crystals.

Life remained at a standstill—but we knew Snowzilla was gone.

All was well until Monday morning. With snow emergency restrictions relaxed, people were getting out. I heard the warning beeps of nearby plows and salt trucks. Suddenly my blissful solitude turned into urgency.

Had I had been forgotten?

After a few calls and texts, I was relieved to hear shoveling outside my back door. Through the window I could see a plow, and small loader piece of equipment. They dug for hours.

Then the beauty became the beast.

The weight of the snow, or the effort to remove it, somehow knocked my garage door off track. It opened, but would not close. I called the repairman, but he could not get to me until the following day.

So my garage door stayed open all night which made the garage freezer stop working which made all the food in the freezer thaw which made me throw away all the food.

Sigh.

But I didn’t lose power. I didn’t run out of food or water. And after three long days, I was able to let Tripp outside.

For that, I am grateful.

How about you? Have you ever had to “prepare for the unexpected?” Or find it to be both a beauty and a beast? Tell me about it. I’d love to know.

Stay safe and warm.

My best—always,

Becky  (Nana B)

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