Those little two- and three-inch snowstorms are nothing but a nuisance, but when we get a big one, New York is transformed into a wonderland. This is my backyard about halfway through the blizzard. It got much deeper. The final count, 26.9 inches, is the most since record-keeping began in 1869.
The snow piled on the patio table was almost as deep as the table is tall.
The wind was blowing so hard, I could barely remain upright while I took this photo of some apartment houses on my block.
I was the only person out and about on my block while the snow was coming down this heavily. It was almost a whiteout with visibility of no more than a city block.
Giant snowstorms still thrill me as much as when I was a kid. At first light on Sunday, I bundled up and walked my Greenwich Village streets, the first person to make footprints on most blocks. I couldn't resist lying down on the corner of Bedford and Carmine to make a snow angel although it was already filled in ten minutes later.
Ollie the cat had never seen snow like this and he seemed to be amazed. It appeared that he picked out a falling snowflake and followed it with his eyes until it hit the ground and then started over with another one. But I couldn't get him out the door to play with me.
All day, radio reporters described the storm in such phrases as "terrible out there," "rough morning," "disastrous storm" and "paralyzing the city." Oh, please. Where is their sense of beauty, of magic, of wonder? And what's life without a delightful, unpredictable surprise now and again.