Ridiculous Amounts of Snow

Every winter I find myself comparing the piddly current snowfalls with the epic snows of my childhood. I reminisce about struggling into woolen leggings with zippers, wading knee-deep through the unshoveled sidewalks of elderly neighbors to get to school, digging tunnels and igloos into the mountainous drifts on either side of the driveway. Once it started to snow in December, you could never really see the ground again until March. The drifts kept getting higher and higher, the streets narrower and narrower. I have a photo of myself one Easter, shivering on the front sidewalk in pastel spring suit and patent-leather shoes, dwarfed by towering mounds of snow to the right and to the left.

Well, this is that snow. There's my house from the back, glimpsed beyond the park, and there's my poor car huddled in the driveway, trapped behind a snowbank that won't melt till June. Où sont les neiges d'antan? They're right here, and I can't wait till I have again consigned them to memory.