On the edge of the Great Plains, that week began with a wind chill 28 degrees below zero. That’s 60 degrees below when water freezes. It was an exclamation point to natural disasters across the nation.
In the Upper Midwest, we take pride in managing anything nature pummels us with. As the killing storm slowly abated and temperatures rose to the mid-20s under Saturday sunshine, we went Baton Rouge decadent – message t-shirts, light jackets and hatless. Drivers of cars dingy and smeared from the long winter’s abuse lined them up to be drive-through scrubbed.
Humans are odd that way. When we suffer brutal cold of traditional winters, the first warm snap is greeted with too much enthusiasm. Parents know this from the arrival of spring sniffles. Hell, it’s still cold enough outside to kill you.
But that week didn’t end in brutality. Here we woke to the gentlest of snowfalls. With no breeze, the flakes stacked up along each bare branch. What sounds Sunday morning offered were muffled and remote.
The wonder of providence was enough to snatch your breath.
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