It was a day of history, one that elders who survived it will share with a generation yet unborn. And as the memories unfurl, no eyes will blink.
It will be the story of how we endured the Great Obama Blizzard.
Braced for the vicious onslaught, the city was widely provisioned with milk and bread. But on the eve of the great storm, things turned more perilous, indeed. A crippling 1 to 3 inches had been predicted, but bulletins through the night revised the impact. Possibly 4 inches, possibly 5. One forecaster went to a catastrophic 5 1/2.
Word flashed through the community of immigrants from Buffalo, N.Y., a group hardened to the perils of precipitation. Some decided to close their bedroom windows this awful night. Others chose to actually sleep under the sheets. Their precautions paid off. All survived.
In the predawn, stars vanished from view as the storm bore down. Then it came – one flurry, then two. In a few minutes, fell a third. Conditions were deteriorating fast.
The school system ordered its great fleet of buses grounded. Who could find fault: Flake 4 had been detected in the outlands. Now, the dire prophecies were coming true.
By dawn, TV weather centers at Defcon One were sounding the gong. Glompler Whompler radars scanned the sullen skies. Technicolor blobs bore down on the Piedmont.
With whole thimblefuls of snow now pummeling the region, TV anchors issued stern warnings: Do not venture out. Remain home. Lie down in a ditch – oops, wrong disaster.
Cackled the Buffalonians: “Is it snow or radiation?” But it wasn't funny. By now hundreds, maybe thousands of flurries gripped the metropolis. Great spires of uptown groaned under ounce after ounce of accumulating snow.
Now, with dawn's light intensifying, at least one TV reporter, risking his life in the field so you wouldn't have to, demonstrated the magnitude of the calamity.
He stuck a yardstick in the ground. Two inches! Two inches! Then he stuck it even harder. Maybe three! Only the tips of grass peeked up from the disastrous depths of the white blanket.
Truckers, not in touch with local TV stations, were apparently caught unawares. They plied the interstates, spraying up mists of deadly slush, leaving other motorists in a dangerous quandary – should they release their death grip from the wheel to turn on their wipers, or use the hand holding the cell phone?
In the suburbs, where it was 31 degrees but felt like 30, mothers who had foolishly allowed children into the apocalypse launched desperate rescue missions. To no avail. The missing mitten was not found.
Finally, at noon, salvation arrived. Out came the sun, and inch by brightening inch began to melt the feathery invaders. Flakes turned to water and trickled into storm drains.
The city was saved. And a new post-blizzard era began, one warm with hope and believing in miracles.
~~~oo0oo~~~See, winter is tough all over!! Now let's not have anymore whining from those up north!!