Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: MONDAY, November 20, 1995 TAG: 9511210006
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: A-5 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: MONTY S. LEITCH
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
``Nothing's wrong,'' she told me. ``But they say it's going to snow, and so I don't want to risk it.''
``Who says it's going to snow?'' I asked.
``They,'' she repeated. ``They.''
``Those,'' she said, ``and everyone else, too.''
``Well, if that's all the information you have,'' I started. ``Forecasts and grocery store rumors ... ''
``They have weather maps,'' she said. ``You can see the fronts moving up. They're saying it on every channel. Radio and TV.'' (I could hear the fear in her voice.) ``Massive fronts. From the south. From the west. They're calling this one A True Nor'easter.''
I resisted the temptation to ask her how a nor'easter could be arriving from the south and the west. Instead, I reminded her that ``they'' are often wrong. ``We could spend all winter waiting for snow,'' I said. ``We often do.''
This irritated my wary, excited friend. I could tell. ``I think they know what they're talking about,'' she sniffed. ``Several of those weather people have the approval of the United Weather Association, you know.''
``Don't you mean the National Meteorological Society?''
``Whatever,'' she said. ``You know what I mean. Folks like that, with those credentials, those kinds of folks wouldn't lie.''
``I don't for one second think that they lie,'' I hurried to say. (And I don't!) ``But the mountains around here make weather forecasting tricky. Fronts move in and slide away before anyone can even guess what's going to happen. It's always been that way. It'll be that way this winter, too.''
``Oh, you just think you're so smart!'' she said.
Then she hung up the phone.
But at 10:30 that night she called me back again. ``It's snowing,'' she said. And she sounded pretty smug.
``Is it?'' I asked, as nonchalantly as possible. In truth, it had been snowing here at my house for nearly an hour already. The ground was white.
``It's sticking, too,'' she said.
``Indeed?'' I asked her. I had been watching the snow fill up the too-long grass in the yard, watching it build up on my little brick stoop. Enough, already, for cat prints to show clearly. Enough, already, that I'd decided to listen to the 11 o'clock news to see which schools would be canceled.
``I told you,'' she said. ``They were right.''
Now, I can admit a mistake when I make one. But I don't like to. And sometimes I don't, just out of spite. So I said, ``Well. We'll see.''
``I bet you're glad now you didn't have to drive into town to meet me for supper,'' my friend kept on. (Persistently. Full of glee.)
I said, ``With front-wheel drive, I seldom have any trouble in weather like this.''
``You didn't seem to mind canceling supper,'' she said.
``That was your idea.''
``You're being obtuse,'' my friend continued.
And, I swear, I had to bite my tongue. I think she misuses that word. Obtuse. What does it really mean? (And she uses it all the time!) ``I think you're being a little too optimistic,'' I said, ``regarding this early forecast.''
My friend said, ``Humph.''
I said, ``I promise I'll watch the weather report when it comes on later. I promise I'll let you say `I told you so' if tomorrow I can't get out.''
``I'm going to hold you to that,'' she said.
And so, true to my word, I watched the 11 o'clock news. They said the same that they'd been saying all day. Only more so. And I went to bed expecting to have to eat crow. Expecting snow. Snow and more snow.
But you know what happened. The next morning they said what they so often say around here in winter. ``Looks like the storm missed us this time. Slid right by. Look at these maps, and let's show you what happened and why ... ''
Waiting for the snow. Waiting and waiting.
I called my friend. I said, ``How much did you get at your house?''
She hung up in my ear.
Monty S. Leitch is a Roanoke Times columnist.
by CNB