lessons in snow
Last week Portland took on a storm of near epic proportions. At least, for this Californian. Decked out in silk long underwear beneath my jeans, beneath my smart wool shirt, my wool socks, my insulated winter coat with fake fur around the hood, wool socks, winter boots, fleece gloves, wool hat, and knit scarf, I stepped outside. Bound for the library amidst this mess. The snow piled up at my front door, and the stairs to the street had disappeared. So had the sidewalk. My first step and I dug myself into the snow, deeper than my warm winter boots could protect.
Pedestrians, it seems, use the street in such circumstances. Not safe. Sure, the cars are traveling slowly and with much caution, but a small slip and one could easily find oneself pinned between a car and a wall of snow. And at intersections, everyone seems to forget which side of the road to use, who has the right of way, and other such rules that seem so clear when the skies are.
And then there are the snowplows. Beasts that know no duty except for the safety of the road, walkers be damned. But I took my cue from the other 3 people I saw brave enough to walk, and took to the streets. In one instance, I saw two large snowplows coming off the highway, scraping waves of snow off the road and directly onto my walking path. Slightly panicked, I dove over the snow barrier (over 3 feet tall) that now separated the road from the buried sidewalk and landed knee deep in the cold.
Through my trek, I neglected one important detail. MLK day. The library was closed. But at least I took on that storm, putting my winter armor to work.
As the snow subsided and the sidewalks were scraped, I began to realize that as it lingers, the snow reveals just as much as it covers. The city is light beneath the snow, cozy in its new soft blanket. But within a day, the lightness becomes a canvas for the dinge of the city. Piled 3 feet high on medians and near driveways, the snow is now black from the road, a dense mountain of soot. The white snow is interspersed with dog pee, the dog shit someone stepped in and tried desperately to scrape off, pools of vomit, cigarette burns, red gatorade poured out, the bottle tossed just a few inches away. Too, the snow reveals which neighborhoods get freshly scraped sidewalks, and which are left to form thick sheets of ice; a bit of dirt poured on top as a meager safety precaution.
If it melted, this dirty snow would be ok. But each time I walk outside in full armor, I am reminded that it must reach well over 32 degrees for this snow to go anywhere. Instead, it will simply pile up. The walls will get thicker, the piss stains more plentiful, until the next storm comes along to briefly hide it all.