There's a wonderful old WC Fields film – a "talkie", but just barely – called The Fatal Glass of Beer. The action takes place in a cabin somewhere in frozen Canada. Every time the door is opened, there's a blast of snow that hits the door-opener in the face. And Fields says, 'It ain't a fit night out for man nor beast.'

I've been thinking about that film all weekend. You see, North Carolina has been buried in snow. You don't believe me? Why, honey child, we had a whole seven inches here in Durham. That's the equivalent of a foot and a half in upstate New York, using standard conversion tables.¹

North Carolinians are terrified of the white stuff. The panic starts long before the event itself, when the weather channel begins drumming up business for its advertisers – air conditioners in the summer, heating and tire retailers in the winter – by announcing that we're in for a Weather Emergency. They have to do this – we in the Southeast are unfortunate in having a dearth of volcanoes, massive mudslides, or other photogenic and revenue-enhancing events, except during hurricane season, which only lasts for four measly months a year. The false snow alarms last year alone caused the poor announcers to spend several hundred man-hours filming in front of the only salt-pile in the county – a salt-pile that stubbornly refused to go down. They were lucky this year. We got a bait of the 'frozen PRE-cip', as a policeman of my acquaintance used to call it.

The pre-emergency events are picturesque, and involve lots of driving – mostly to the store for bread and milk. Even people who are wheat- and lactose-intolerant feel the need to rush to the Seven-Eleven and buy all the bread and milk². It's a security-blanket thing, I suspect, like with Englishmen and teddy bears. Elektra works in a retail store. They had a banner night on Friday – the grocery section was down to the bare shelves came eleven pm.

While Elektra was scanning plastic wrap with balloons on it, I had quit trying to explain US history for the day and decided to watch some in the making. There's nothing like television weather coverage – fortunately. As Einstein wisely said, 'Imagination is more important than knowledge. ' He lived in Princeton, so I suspect he knew a weatherman or two. Meteorology may not be rocket science, but the weather cheerleaders obviously put a lot of the old grey matter to work in the firm conviction that a snowstorm cannot take place without them – it wouldn't dare.

The friendly man explained to us all that there was 'absolutely no reason' to close anything early, as the snow wouldn't begin until midnight. So all those school systems that knocked off at one pm were doing just exactly what we thought they were doing – grabbing a break from those noisy kids. We didn't really blame them, as it's been a long time since Christmas vacation.

I got some hot coffee and sat looking out the window at stray snowflakes, reassured by the statement that workers from three neighbouring states had been called in to keep an eye on the power lines. North Carolina's power companies are notoriously unreliable, and if the lights went out and the temperature was in the teens³ I was going to be spending the weekend in bed with a woman, two cats and a dog. I suspected they'd fight.

I was less reassured by the news that the National Guard had been called out. I wasn't sure that the military solution was entirely called for – but that's why we pay taxes.

By the time Elektra got home, the ground was covered. By morning, it was a winter wonderland. Children went mad on the Piedmont hillsides. Adults walked dogs and admired the novelty. The television continued to emote. Every extracurricular activity of every organisation in the county was cancelled...except, of course, for professional basketball and hockey, whose ticket-holders were the only ones to venture out on an unploughed interstate highway. Apparently, paying $150 for a ticket to a sporting event will cause one to risk life and limb rather than admit that the money was wasted. I wouldn't know.

The b-ball fans notwithstanding, the rest of the state wasn't happy, except for the fact that it was a weekend, and they could 'skip church' for once without feeling guilty. I was worried about Elektra's getting to work – a panicked neighbour had left his car behind mine, the glittering parking lot was more ornamental than useful, anyway...most of the taxi drivers are from warm countries, and stayed home... We finally reached a dispatcher who had relocated from New York City (and was laughing his head off) who was willing to send the next available driver...the retail store's headquarters is in Minnesota. Nobody in Lake Woebegone has a clue how snowflakes scramble the brains of Southerners...

Then we got the word: The mall was closed. EVERYTHING was closed. The governor, bless her little pea-pickin' heart, had declared a State of Emergency.

Our relatives north of the Mason-Dixon line could laugh all they wanted. They had snow ploughs. All our snow ploughs are in the mountains, and will stay there, thank you very much, so that the professors and students can get to class at Appalachian State University. They got more than a foot⁴. Us Piedmonters could just hunker down and enjoy the enforced holiday.

I reckon that my neighbours stood it as long as they could. The nice man downstairs walked his beagle, then called his brother-in-law, who appeared midmorning with his van. They asked if we wanted anything – 'No, we're good,' – off they went in search of an open supermarket. (They probably ran out of milk. Or bread. Or both⁵.) Saturday passed quietly – the lights stayed on, I made pizza, the postal lady lived up to that slogan about 'neither rain nor snow...' and brought us our video, so we spent the evening merrily laughing over a gem of an East German scifi movie from the 70s...Im Staub der Sterne, you must see it, you cannot miss the opportunity to see a space shuttlecraft made out of used Soviet washing machine parts...We went to bed happy.

I think it dawned on me about Sunday afternoon – when my neighbour came by to ask if we needed anything from the store, he was walking this time – that our fellow Carolinians are like most Americans. They cannot stay at home for more than a few hours without going stir-crazy. I suspect my neighbour of inventing things to go and buy, just to relieve his cabin fever. I suspect he was grateful to us for saying, Well, now that you mention it, we're out of dog treats and the pooch is getting importunate... I suspect his wife was glad to get him out of there for an hour or two.

It is Monday evening. The parking lot, which was beginning to thaw, has refrozen as the temperature has dropped to 28 degrees⁶. I realise that, except to clean the snow off my car and let the dog stick his nose out, I haven't ventured from this flat in three days. And that it doesn't bother me any more than it bothers my cats – who haven't been outside the flat since January of 2007, when they first arrived.

I think I know why. I come from a long line of mountain dwellers, people whose log cabins/crofts/shielings/whatever-that-was-handmade-and-not-prefab were likely to be snowed in and unreachable for weeks at a time. People who spent most of their lives within a mile or two⁷ of their homes. Even in my granddad's day, they only went to 'town' once a week...farmers stayed put.

I like staying put, even when the temperature isn't approaching zero⁸. Unlike my grandfather, who wanted to turn around and go home to his cows come sundown⁹, I am capable of travelling, even as far as Europe. But once I get there, I tend to become at home where I am. I like to study the view outside my window. The need to pace¹⁰, jog, or flit around does not blight me. I sit. I ponder.

I'm glad the sun warmed things up today. Otherwise the neighbours might have had to stay home.

There might have been murder done. You've never heard of the Donner Party?

Fact and Fiction by Dmitri Gheorgheni Archive

Dmitri Gheorgheni

08.02.10 Front Page

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