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February 8, 1997
You know the weather is really a problem when strangers talk to each other in the street about it. Boylston Street to be exact. The sheer terror of walking from Trident Booksellers back to the parking garage a block away (on the corner of Boylston and some side street across from the ICA) nearly eclipsed everything that was fun about returning to the scene of our first date.
That mild February day we first met at Trident was a rarity that winter. It was between storms. It was so warm I walked down Newbury Street with my jacket open. There was snow everywhere from the last storm and it was starting to melt, making that little snow melt sound as it ran down the street toward the storm drains. The sky was bright and the air felt light, like it was hinting at the possibility of spring or the possibility of romance or something.
Today was nothing like that. The snow was supposed to pass well to the south of us. Wrong. The closer I got to Boston the more it was snowing. It looked beautiful, a fine powdery snow decorating the backs of the Make Way for Ducklings duck statues on the Common, turning the trees into sugary fantasy objects. Tourists were snapping photos of each other like crazy all around the common. I'm sure they all got that perfect romantic "Winter on Boston Common" shot for the album.
Then we got out of the car! Slip! Hmmm, walk carefully girls...
It was possible to walk carefully across Boylston and over to Newbury without falling. It was fun to eat Trident Fries - especially the beets - and slurp smoothies and remember how ridiculous we were the first time we sat down there and talked about everything from the merits (or demerits?) of Stephen Mitchell's Rilke translations to great relief pitchers of the 1970's and everything in between -- for eight hours!!!!! So we didn't reenact the 8-hour part. We browsed for a bit and decided since I was still sick we should spend a quiet evening at my place instead of braving the elements to do something exciting in the big city.
By the time we got back to the car, we were grateful to be alive and intact. The sidewalks had turned to skating rinks. The side street that runs past the Boston Architectural Center (I've always had trouble with street names) is a slight up hill. We might as well have been climbing Everest. Actually, Everest would've been easier because we'd have had crampons to get some traction. Even taking slow baby steps was an adventure. I'd feel myself sliding backward in slow motion then catch myself and slide forward. The last block was only possible because one of the buildings had a railing next to it. We pulled ourselves along using the railing. Random strangers were encouraging each other and articulating their wishes for ice skates, crampons, a rope and pitons... One woman said someone at her school had just fallen so badly they had to call an ambulance - head injuries. Sirens wailed all around.
There wasn't even that much snow. Just black ice and a chilling wind.
Back at my house, a mere 20something miles north of Boston: not a flake of snow nor a trace of ice. Nothing. Zip. Zero.
After putting hot packs on my shoulder and drinking a cup of tea, I read aloud the first three chapters of Independent People, which we both enjoyed immensely. After dinner, we listened to a tape of Arnold Lobel reading his master works: Frog and Toad are Friends, Days with Frog and Toad, Frog and Toad All Year... Just the thing for a quiet evening at home after a challenging 2 block trek through the harsh wintry terrain of Boston...
Yes, toads in literature is a theme...