“Storm of Historic Proportions”

I don’t pay much attention to weather forecasts.  Whatever the prediction the weather is what it is.   But sometimes a forecast jumps up and shouts in one’s face.  Like tonight, when I heard that a “monster storm’ with a track 2100 miles long is projected to bring blizzard conditions from the Great Plains to New England, dropping 21 inches of snow in the Boston area before tomorrow night, followed by sleet and freezing rain.  The last I heard about this storm, from my builder friend John who does pay attention to weather forecasts because they directly affect his business, it called for 3-6 inches of snow.  Not nothing, but not a monster.  What happened between 7 am and 6:30 pm today?

I’m ready.  The back spasms caused by shoveling last week’s snow are almost gone, and I can bend over the sink to brush my teeth without supporting my torso.  Who needs the gym?

Trust Me, I’ve Driven in Snow Like This My Whole Life

On my office wall is a cartoon showing a handbag-clutching middle-aged woman looking at headstones in the Men-Only Cemetery, with epitaphs such as “Don’t Worry, I’ve Done This a Million Times,” “Yes, I Know What I’m Doing,” and “What’s the Worst That Can Happen?”  I thought of this cartoon when over coffee this morning I told my friend Chip that I planned to drive to Maine–during a Nor’easter blizzard forecast to drop at least a foot  of snow over New England.  He noted the smart thing was to delay my trip for a day and recommended I do the smart thing, but acknowledged that if he were going with me instead of heading in to work, his answer would be “let’s go now!”

We both recalled a decision on last summer’s bicycle trip.  Our group planned to ride east to west up Glacier National Park’s Going to the Sun Road to Logan Pass, but the weather at our starting point included mid-40 temperatures, driving rain and sleet, and lightning.  We weighed our choices over breakfast. Most of the group said “NFW am I riding in this.”  Chip wanted to ride, and I really wanted to ride. It would have been a long, hard, wet, cold, and miserable climb–in other words, it would have been an adventure.  My sensible friends convinced me not to go (no doubt rolling their eyes at my foolhardiness), and of course they were right, but part of me wishes still I’d made the climb.*

Going to the Sun Road

That’s the part of me that decided to set out for Maine at 4:3o this afternoon.  No drama; I made it.   It took 4+ hours instead of the usual 2.5 because safe highway speeds were at most 40-50 mph, and I drove many miles stuck behind a highway-spanning phalanx of snow plows traveling at 25 mph.  I did manage to squeeze through a gap in one phalanxes’ formation and scoot ahead to the empty, snow-covered highway.  My Maine driveway had not yet been plowed and I had to shovel a clearing to open the front door, but I made it.  The only snafu was when to make room to plow the driveway I backed my truck onto the grass through a berm of plowed snow and got stuck.  I’ll dig it out tomorrow morning.

*We climbed the west side of Going to the Sun Road to Logan Pass the following day.  40 degrees, but no rain, sleet, or lightning.


Some spend spring break–an event that makes my friends with non-academic jobs question their career choices–in fair-weather climes. I’m a New Englander in my bones. All of that sun, sand, warm water, easy living, and relaxation are frivolous when you can spend a character-building week in March with this:





Sometimes February in Boston provides a classic New England winter with deep fluffy snow, narrow paths carved through the drifts, and a brilliant blue skies. Other Februaries are like this one. A thin crust of iron-hard frozen gunk covers the ground, sand covers the roads, and lawns are scarred from exuberant cowboy plow operators. It’s hard to imagine how much can change when you travel 120 miles due north.


There has been so much snow that the oil truck has not been able to drive down the access road to get to the house. We’re nursing about a half-tank of oil, keeping the thermostats low and relying on the wood stove and fireplace to maintain a livable temperature. The oil man is due again Monday and part of today’s job was to shovel a path from the driveway to the oil fill pipe–which is located about as far away from the driveway as can be.


In winter, it gets no better than this.



I’m in Maine this week with the dogs, enjoying the solitude. I’ve been working most of the day. I needed a break so an hour ago I played fetch with the dogs–this time I threw and they retrieved–and went to the transfer station to get rid of the accumulated trash and recyclables. It’s a short drive and the snow that started earlier this afternoon made it especially picturesque. At the station I dumped the trash in the appropriate bins and chatted with Eric, the affable and quite competent transfer station agent. Eric, as he always does, had biscuits for the dogs and, as he always does, Eric handed them to me for feeding. Cleo and Chelsey don’t distinguish much between biscuits and fingers and in their eagerness they will take in everything attached to an item of food and sort it out later. As I was leaving Eric motioned for me to roll down my window. “Your sticker expires on the 31st. You’ll need a new one for next year.” “Thanks” I said. “Are the town offices open today?” He confirmed they were.

Driving there I noticed the lack of cars. I’d driven about 5 miles and seen no more than ten vehicles, including town trucks sanding the roads. I was savoring the lack of traffic, contrasting it with traffic at home, when I arrived at the town offices. I never mind going there. The ladies who work there–I’ve only seen women behind the counter–have always been helpful and efficient.

“What can I do for you?”

“I need a new Bulky Waste sticker.”

“Where do you live in town?” I gave her the local address. She entered something in a computer and looked at the screen for a while. Then she pulled a map out from under the counter, consulted it, and entered something else in the computer. Then she looked at me. “Who are you?”

“David Randall.” And as soon as she asked the question I knew I had a problem.

“That property is owned by a trust.”

I know that, of course, but I only think about it twice a year when I pay the real estate tax bill. I owned this property originally but four years ago we transferred it to a Qualified Personal Residence Trust–a QPRT. My wife, the estate planning lawyer, knows all about these legal techniques for reducing estate taxes. Owning this property in a QPRT is a good thing for our children when we get deposited in the bins of that great transfer station in the sky, but not a good thing for me today at town hall. Only the trustee has the legal authority to act as the owner, which means that she has to write a letter to town hall on behalf of the trust authorizing the town to issue a Lakes Region Bulky Waste Facility sticker to me so I can take out trash in 2008.

When I need to explain the difference between legal and beneficial ownership I’ll send students to this post. Beneficial ownership means the trash belongs to you; legal ownership means someone else controls what you can do with it.