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Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow... (like we have a choice?)
As Mark Twain once said, "Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it." Or maybe it was Sam Clemens, I forget. No matter.

I plan to blog mostly about writing, because this is my writing blog, and if I've the gumption to use as my avatar such a literary luminary as Edgar Allan "Fast Eddie" Poe, I should at least wax eloquent about the craft itself. Which I humbly hope to do. However, since the rules of blogging are apparently as arcane as Australian Rules Football, bloggers are evidently free to please themselves. This blog's topic is one on the minds of many lately: the Snowpocalypse.

I got the term from my Editrix friend, who got it from someone else, but the term is appropriate. The Snowpocalypse hit the US of friggin' A like the wrath of God, burying DC and Philly and NY and even Florida in the white stuff. I am a Northeasterner, and where I am we have about a foot and a half of snow over everything. If you expect to hear piss-and-moan, I fear I must disappoint you. I am still a little kid when it comes to snow. I confess I love winter. The following rumination on the subject is a retread from an old newsgroup post, but it is mine, it is original, and now, Cherished Reader, it is yours: 

Our Lady Cold has graced Long Island's south shore with Her wintry kiss. The air is crisp and clear and intoxicating, chilled wine for the soul. In the wind She sighs and shifts, rustling the first light cover of snow, white like bedsheets are white. The trees are bare; nature sleeps naked. Ordinary people doing ordinary things armor themselves against Her touch; an act as simple as taking your child to the busstop is a test of courage. Our technology balks, our arrogance wavers. She tempers us with Her chill, chases us away with Her bitterness, seduces us with Her stark beauty. She takes a special cruel joy in reminding us just how vulnerable we really are. She can kill, without pity. But those who join Her on Her wintry bed, enfolded in Her embrace (Her perfume is the scent of pine needles), can *see* every mortal breath they take, and so know that they are truly, unequivocally, alive. 

I do so love winter.