May 21, 2018
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Take snow for granted? Not here

By Meg Adams, Special to the BDN

It sounds very silly to say this after spending the last two winters in Antarctica, but I have missed snow dreadfully. Oh, not snow lying about on the ground.

I’ve had heaps of that, more than anyone could wish for. What I’ve missed has been the actual falling of flakes. While plenty of snow drifts to the South Pole, it almost never falls there; the high pressure and extraordinarily low moisture content of the air prevent precipitation. On the few occasions when it did snow at the South Pole, the flakes were thin, anemic, dry dots that never lasted long.

So when a winter weather advisory was announced for Baltimore last weekend, I’ll admit that I got excited about it.

“A winter storm warning.” my co-worker announced over lunch break. “For tomorrow. Better get ready.”

“Do you think it’ll be bad?”

“Bad or not, one thing’s for sure — the supermarket will be completely out of milk and toilet paper by 10 o’clock tonight.”


“Oh yeah … Baltimore doesn’t know how to handle snow at all, and everyone will panic.”

“I’ve got tickets for a concert tomorrow night,” I said, uneasily. “I hope I can get there all right.”

“You’re from Maine,” my co-worker responded, surprised. “You can handle snow.”

“It’s not the snow I’m worried about,” I said. “It’s the city and the people. If 3 inches can shut down Seattle just because no one is used to it, well, I’m not taking any chances south of the Piscataqua River.”

She laughed. “Fair enough.”

I went to the store that afternoon and sure enough, it was crowded. But unlike the people who grumbled over their hastily bought eggs and bread, I couldn’t wait for the promised snow.

When Saturday dawned with an encouragingly dark cloudbank, I waited eagerly, glancing often out the window. I had it pictured perfectly in my mind: big, fat, fluffy flakes, wafting toward the ground.

They would be gray as soon as they hit, of course — this is a city we’re talking about, not some Christmas card — but they would be white and perfect as they fell, slowly and steadily, from the sky.

Well, I was wrong. In Maryland, the first snow of the season can be just as gray while it’s falling as it is when it finally hits the ground — at least that’s what happened last weekend. For maybe a half an hour or so, some white flakes came down, already wet enough to dart, rather than float, to the ground. For the rest of the day, a steady, slushy gray sleet fell, piling up on my small balcony and trimming the rooftops with an almost shiny, translucent gray.

“Gross,” my date said, looking morosely out the window. “The sky is puking on us.”

“They call this snow?”

I didn’t give up hope for some small shred of romance.

“It’s not pretty,” I said, “but maybe it’ll all freeze later. And the roads will shut down. We’ll have to walk to the concert.”

“The concert’s on the other side of town.”

“So? That’s still only two miles from here. If it gets colder when the sun goes down, this whole city will be covered in ice. None of the buses will run. We’d better plan on walking.”

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But the weather didn’t get any colder, and the city showed no inclination to shut down, despite the residents’ wild preparation the day before. The bus arrived exactly on time — almost unusually punctual — and we got to our evening’s destination a half an hour early.

Far from turning into ice, our day’s worth of “snow” quickly turned into water. By the time we left the concert at 11 that night, the roads looked like we had received no more than another day’s worth of rain.

“Maybe the next snow will be — you know — more like snow.”

We walked back home anyway, admiring the lights — if nothing else, the warm air was a pleasant silver lining to our slushy cloud.

It wasn’t a total loss. We managed to find just enough snow piled up on parked cars to make the first snowballs of the season.

Well, my friend made the first snowball of the season. I was the lucky recipient.

I called home to Maine the next day. My dad was outside clearing the driveway. Holden, Maine, had received all of the snow that Baltimore had not. I sighed with envy.

“You two can trade,” my mom told me. “You know what he always says. One of these years he’s going to put a snow shovel on his shoulder and walk south until someone points at it and says, ‘What’s that?’ Then we’re going to move there.”

I laughed.

The grass is always greener, I suppose, and the snow whiter. Better luck next time — perhaps the coming weeks will bring some real snow to the Chesapeake Bay.

Meg Adams, who grew up in Holden and graduated from John Bapst Memorial High School in Bangor and Vassar College in New York, shares her experiences with readers each Friday. For more about her adventures, go to the BDN Web site: or e-mail her at

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