Welcome to the heart of Snowmaggedon. When I woke up this morning (and when I say "woke" up, I mean THROWN from my bed at 7am by the sound of my windows shaking from the snow vortex outside), I looked at my measly pile of non-existent food and then looked into the flurry mayhem outside...and then realized that when I saw people lining up at the grocery store last night, arms filled with every possible canned good, I perhaps should have taken the term "snowstorm" and "record-breaking" seriously. Apparently I needed to be staring into the heart of the snow tornado before I got the message.
SO, being the rational, sane person that I am, I decided to take a stroll in the blizzard. A stroll, only two blocks long, that included: sinking 2 feet into fresh powder, my hair literally forming icicles, and almost falling over onto a police car (it was parked. I think that makes that situation better...) And, naturally, I documented the storm as I went along.
Nevertheless, from the archives, I do have an update on The Bromance of 1801.
Unfortunately, The Bromance of 1801 quickly deteriorated into The Cat Fight of 1802. Let's just say 1802 seemed to be a bad year for Mathew Carey. Since I only read the letters written to him, I can only imagine that he fell into some depressive tizzy, stayed home, and refused to write a single letter in response to anyone, since most letters I read involved sentences like "WHY won't you return my calls." or whatever the 1802 equivalent of that was. Actually, the letters started to bring the term "passive aggressive" to a whole new level. Because, really, nothing says "passive aggressive" quite like angry cursive.
And, best friend forever Parson Weems really took the cake with that one. Apparently, Mathew wasn't giving him enough books to sell on the road, particularly the fan-favorite Family Bible, so he got melodramatic. Please observe. (Note: these are actual letters. I couldn't even try to make up a person as entertaining as Parson Weems)
Letters to Mathew Carey--
Feb, 11th: "Came here in the rain, a pouring rain, for more Bibles, but behold none! None! None! A whole and not a Bible! No a single Bible! Yours, Parson"
Feb 28th: "This is simply to inform you that I am alive. Yours, Parson"
April 12th: "I am unhappy...perhaps you'll hear from me tomorrow. Yours, Parson"
May 24th: "How perfectly cheerful I find myself under rain and sunshine, cold and hunger, were you to me what you ought to be? But how can I be cheerful when you so often neglected and ill-treated?"
Nov 30th: "Think and Dream much of the best ways and means to employ my exertions to best uses."
...and with that, the ever-so-cordial year of 1802 ended. I'm eager for what the Parson/Mathew saga has in store for 1803. Until then, I'll try to avoid renegade blizzard videotaping (hi mom! promise I'm being safe!) and perhaps listening to the weather people when they start referring to apocalypses.