The Winter That Wasn't

It’s a new year in New York and still no snow. This particular weather upset is one of the most talked about topics I’ve ever experienced in the US. From the Post Office to the local news stations there seems to be consternation and wonder in equal parts, some even musing whether winter might slip by (we should be so lucky) with us transitioning smoothly from chilly autumn to early spring. There’s a sort of group befuddlement in the air as though the year’s requisite snow has somehow gone missing. I half expect the weathermen to post ‘Missing’ signs on their studio maps, so remarkable is their surprise over the no-show snow.

I suspect it may be my fault. It was top of my wish list to Santa when I wrote, “Dear Santa, All I want for Christmas is an easy winter. I don’t have it in me to shovel every morning at 6am and I’m too young to be a Florida snowbird since my children are only in pre-school.” Perhaps our elf put in a good word, or Santa picked up my telepathic messages at the Washington Park boathouse grotto. Either that or he thought I was giving him the eye.

To be fair, I had already jinxed the possibility of snow. First, I implored my parents to prepare for a promised (and clearly over-hyped) white Christmas in the US. My efforts resulted in them packing more than enough warm sweaters, undies, and heavy socks to almost warrant a third suitcase. Second, in August I signed my daughter up for ski lessons in January. Third, I made my annual shopping trip to LL Bean and bought cross-country skis for our children. Since then, not a snowflake.

I should have learned my lesson last year when I harboured romantic visions of the family zipping around on a body of frozen water, bundled up in hats and scarves, sipping creamy hot chocolate from a flask. I may have been channeling Rockwell. As a result, everyone received ice skates and hot chocolate for Christmas – even my not so delighted husband, especially when I supplied new hats and scarves to keep us warm. Unfortunately, my ice skates didn’t fit and had to be sent back. Then our backyard pond didn’t quite freeze, or at least not to the degree where I’d trust my family on it en masse. And my hopes of night time skating at the Empire State Plaza - flanked majestically on all sides by the state museum, the Senate, and the Egg - were dashed when budget cuts meant it didn’t even open. I may have a more successful career as a romantic war poet than an outdoor sports director.

This year, the ice skates have been waiting hopefully for the outdoor ice rink at Schodack Landing State Park to freeze. Since Christmas, the skis have been leaning against the sliding glass door staring morosely at the backyard slope. While ski lessons are supposed to start this weekend our hostas are busy pushing up new green shoots, and the ski schools are frantically manufacturing snow.

Here’s the strange part. The snow blower remains in the garage, the morning school commute’s a snap, and walks outside are still pleasant instead of a face freezing tundra. But are we happy? No, we’re not. It seems we New Yorkers feel robbed of our winter wonderland and we’re practically salivating at the prospect of fresh powder snow. My hankerings have been so strong I even looked into cut-price mountain passes and ventured into Eastern Mountain Sports to look at new ski goggles.

After a dusting teased us earlier this week, today’s promising snow reports have my entire household clasping their hands in the hope of a snow day the first week back to school. Meanwhile, I’m conflicted by my secret hope to get out in the white stuff without coming across as ungrateful to Santa.