Ansel Adams, Branches in Snow, 1932
It only happens once every few years, but you know what it means--mass hysteria. My office emptied out hours before any flakes began falling and everyone on the roads is acting like they just got their license.
The good news: I get to sleep in tomorrow morning. (Why show up early if no one else is going to? ) The bad news: our version of snow is more like frozen rain, which turns tree limbs into missiles and knocks down perfectly good power lines. I am enjoying electricity while we still have it, but I have a book and a lantern at the ready.