I ask the young lady on the other end of the phone, who has been unbelievably patient with me, if she is in “snow hell.”

She replies that yes, her office is in Boston, and she is in “snow hell.” And that she has had a “snow hell” commute.

I reply that I too am in “snow hell.”

We immediately bond. Which is a very good thing, because the transaction (not due to either of our “expertise” in the matter) takes like forever.

I try to pretend that I am in “snow denial.” But this appears to be impossible. The snow reality is just too obvious.

The minute I find out that our last remaining hardware store in Newburyport, MA gets yet another order of salt in (I’ve missed all the others), I rush over and hoard bags of salt madly. (Apparently I am not alone, since each order apparently disappears in sometimes under an hour.)

My balance, on the slippery stuff, quite frankly, “stinks.” (I was going to use a stronger word, but I decide not to.)

I look skeptically at the icicles forming off my roof. I used my roof rake so this is not supposed to happen. However, it is. I look around at my neighbor’s dwellings and everyone has dagger like icicles hanging from somewhere. We are all in icicle land together.

This is somehow comforting.

The owner of the hardware store (this is why I love my small New England city, because of things like conversing with the hardware store owner) says the same thing. He has a hardware store, and it looks like even he could be in “snow hell” (although he would never admit such a thing). That we are all in this together.

This is very reassuring as I carry my hoarded bags of salt out to my automobile, and everyone at the hardware store seems to think that this is perfectly normal.

Mary Eaton
Newburyport