DAY 6: Buffaloians, or whatever Buffalo, New York residents are called, are surely having a good laugh and knee-slap over the fuss made over snow here in the mid-Atlantic region–the 1″-3″ of snow weather lobbyists have ordained to fall in the District (for nefarious reasons as always). I can take it. I’ve lived in this area long enough to know we’re a bunch of snow babies. Having also lived in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains for nine years, I join in on occasion (in spirit; I’m not about to shuffle off to Buffalo).

The first October, we drove ahead of a snowstorm that dropped three feet of snow along most of Highway 25 on our way to a Taos, New Mexico, B&B weekend. It was as cold, if not colder, than the “22 but feels like 16 degrees” it is here, but this is January. That was October. OCTOBER. Unlike the District and especially Buffalo, which ranks right up there with Syracuse as the bleakest, least sunny city in the US, the 300 days of sunshine Colorado averages means the snow’s melted before it turns dingy and iced over. I’ve witnessed April in Syracuse (Springtime, ostensibly) visiting a friend who attended the University. A University with human Habitrails connecting the buildings because of the winters, a winter so awful she transferred after her freshman year. Fun weekend, though. Drank lots of cheap beer, took one hit off a four foot bong that rendered me unfit to socialize, and watched a hungover dude piss on a tree. The only yellow I saw that weekend.

Ah, college life.

Anyhoo, each winter I hope for one big snowfall, one that shuts down the state but not before denuding grocery store shelves of unbleached toilet paper and non-dairy milk (it could happen) before the first flake has fallen. And when the last flake comes to rest, a reverent hush descends outside my picture window. Mother Nature has spoken and like a good daughter, I listen.

I’m listening. Happily.

Lack of communication is unhealthy.

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