There's a nice green lawn outside my kitchen window. A couple of goldfish sun themselves in a little pond. A cardinal darts around the scene.
No ice. No snow. No January 1996.
And yet, for some strange reason, the recent mild weather drew me back to the spirit of icy adventure that imposed itself upon Baltimore just a decade ago.
There's something about a news event that makes you recall just where you were and what you were doing.
I was on a post-holiday visit to some friends in Red Lion, Pa. A big gang gathered at a warm York County farmhouse one Saturday night. Snow was predicted; but the Baltimore contingent dismissed the notion of being hit because, after all, our storms are well-known for going one way or the other around Russell Street.
I had a hunch and harbored a wicked desire for a big snow hit. January is a wretched month; why not add snow to the misery? I put in a call to this paper's city desk and was told bluntly: Get in the car, start the motor and go home. Now.
My friends from Reservoir Hill, who would have lingered over the ample food and drink into the early-morning hours, didn't like my advice but went along anyway. When the snow hit, as it did a few hours after we had arrived in Baltimore, they complained that we could have stretched out the evening for another couple of hours.
I'd say we made it out just in time. Baltimore got socked by two snowstorms that week and then took a bath of warm, flooding rain, producing what a news colleague of mine described, aptly, as "Frankenstein weather."
The snow was so bad that I pulled into service a huge green coat reserved for only the worst weather. It's downright hot and padded, in case I tip over.
It snowed so much Sunday that the city just shut down. Come Monday, the first day of work, I walked to the corner, then extended my hand and thumb. It didn't take long for a gang of Johns Hopkins Hospital people, from the obstetrics unit, to pick me up and get me to the office. That was only because we were the lone vehicle on St. Paul Street.
Come quitting time (I recall a gorgeous sunset), the question was how to get home. I'd also volunteered my guest bedroom to a Riderwood friend, who knew he couldn't make it all the way home. The two of us walked out to Calvert Street and there, as if sent by a January guardian angel, was an available Yellow Cab.
We popped in, but instead of going home, I instructed the driver, who spoke in a heavy Russian accent, to take us to a neighborhood liquor store. He complied, but our destination was locked. I think it was then that we fully realized the seriousness of the situation.
That night, I hacked up the old Christmas ham with some of Grandmother's-recipe macaroni and cheese. It's amazing what you can concoct - and truly enjoy - during foul weather.
Later in the week, food supplies ran low all over town. I like what my local grocer, Jerry Gordon, told a customer, who wanted an order brought to his doorstep: "I can guarantee your groceries will be delivered to you sometime between now - and Mother's Day."
jacques.kelly@baltsun.com
