I woke up on the phone again this morning, the red numbers on the nightstand blaring 5:03.
"Stew, you got gear?"
"Um, no. I'm off today...flying out tomorrow."
At that point, the voice began snorting like Yosemite Sam did when he realized Bugs Bunny had outsmarted him. Leaving him to spin self-destructive circles in the newsroom, I dropped the phone and sank back in the covers, not the least bit curious as to why the early morning producer had called in the first place.
Ninety minutes later, I stumbled out of bed and plopped down into my office chair. As I reached up to check my e-mail, a strange white glow caught my attention. Snow!...ish. Sure, grass blades were poking through the light dusting, but that's more than enough to send my fellow Southerners into an uncontrollable frenzy of closing schools, buying bread and wrecking cars. Of course, that's precisely the kind of chaos I make a living documenting. Thus I couldn't help but grin as I made a pot of coffee and watched my youngest child salivate at the window. For as long as I can remember, I have spent every snowy morning on the hunt for the freezing shut-in, the idling salt truck and the icy overpass. Not having to do so today is an unexpected pleasure I'm struggling to put into words.
Now if you'll excuse me I have to wrap an eight year old in seven layers of insulated clothing so she can brave a quarter inch of snowdust to get a morning newspaper I'll spend thirty seconds perusing. But why do the math?