There’s something about a huge snowstorm like the one we had that makes me pensive.
Last night, after everyone had gone to sleep, I was reading on the couch.
Every 20 minutes or so, I found myself staring out the window to see how the “blizzard of 2010” (aka Snowlapalooza) was taking shape.
Perhaps it is the tabula rasa effect that a huge amount of snow has on the world. Everything is so pure and clean that leads to that desire for introspection.
The book I was reading was Michael Chabon’s Manhood for Amateurs, which I liked but didn’t love (I had high expectations after The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay.)
One of the more vivid pictures he paints in his prose, at least for me, was his recounting of the day that his younger brother came home from the hospital after being born.
“Until then,” he wrote, “I’d had no one to share my story with. At that moment, my story began.”
I shared that sentiment with my own first brother, Asher earlier in the day.
Periodically, but not frequently enough, we get together to schmooze.
Yesterday morning, as we were preparing for the Blizzard, we reminisced about a massive storm in 1979 (we think) that afforded us the opportunity to jump off the top of our parents station wagon and build a network of tunnels throughout our neighborhood.
“I haven’t thought of that day for 30 years,” Asher said and, as I finished Chabon’s book last night, I thought of the fact that my story (and his, I suppose) are so dependent upon each other.
Going upstairs, I decided to check in on the kids, if only to savor one of those fleeting moments of parenthood that in the blink of an eye are gone.
As I peeked into the room that Paco and Tonka share, I did a double take.
The two of them were sleeping in the same bed.
It’s happened before, but not very often.
For whatever reason, the two of them decided that they wanted to snug with each other, I’m sure, and fell asleep next to each other.
Peaceful as they were, I thought about the fact that their stories were dependent upon each other and that the memories of their childhood would not be preserved by their parents but by each other.
After dinner last night, I told them, “this is a snowstorm that you may not see for a long time,” so we all seized the opportunity to go outside for a 10 minute walk, creating a lasting memory that the two of them will (hopefully) be able to share 30 years down the road, as Asher and I did about our own snowstorm adventure 30 years ago.
I sat for a while on the other bed, just watching them sleep and so appreciative of the stories that they were creating with each other.
The snowstorm was, in this one sense at least, a blessing.
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