Last Thursday it had been snowing for so long it seemed as if the weather conditions were eternal. Clumps of flakes came pelting down out of a white sky like big white feathers. The air was still and chilly. Tree branches dripped, bending to the ground under their burden of snow. Streets and parking lots were thick with the Slurpee slush common to this time of year in the Adirondacks. As fast as driveways were ploughed or shoveled, they filled up again.

    It was great!

    School was canceled Wednesday. Thursday morning the windows were white. Other than the grinding and clanking of a state snow plow that sent my daughter’s two cats running for cover under the bed, there were no traffic sounds on state Route 73 outside.

    I kept flipping switches and pulling cords, but no lights came on. The television screen remained blank. As I slowly awakened, I realized the power was out. Yeah, but I could still make coffee, because I have a gas stove. All right! Far out!

    But just how far-reaching was this power outage? If it was only my house it would be less exciting than if the whole town were involved. I dressed and ventured outside. Wading and stumbling through several feet of heavy snow — not corn snow, no, but not powder either—see? We have at least as many terms for snow as the Inuit — I made my way to the road, which was slightly easier to navigate, and contained more variety: ice, snow, slush and pools of water.

    It was time for school, but I saw no cars heading that direction, only Peg, the Spanish teacher, ahead of me. Hmm. Mixed message.

    The generator was on at the Keene Valley Neighborhood House assisted living center. I dropped by.

    Edith Cairn, who is 95 years old, kindly invited me to stay in her room if the power didn’t come back on. She said she has an extra recliner.

    The Noon Mark Diner had its generator going too.

    A woman stood out in her yard, pushing snow off her car. “I’m tired of this weather,’” she said. Enough is enough. Makes a person nervous. Induces panic, in fact. Why do we live here? I’ve got to get out of here, it’s too much.”

    Then her grown daughter stopped by. “Wow, we are being dumped on, eh?” the daughter commented, laughing, looking up at the crazy sky.

    “Oh,” her mother said, “you don’t like it here? This is a hardship? Why don’t you just move to Afghanistan then? Go on! Move to Afghanistan!”

    Snowstorms make some people a little cranky. I keep walking.

    Frank Huchro and his son Frank Huchro Jr. were putting the finishing touches on their perfectly groomed driveway.

    “I wonder if Mark is awake?” Frank Sr. asked, looking over at his neighbor’s house, where clearly no attempt at snow removal had been made above what was absolutely necessary to dislodge Mark’s car.

    “Frank likes to start his snow blower and wake me up,” Mark said, laughing, when I asked him about it later. “I’d rather ski than shovel.”

    People are milling around the darkened school, but they’re headed home. A bus driver said said she drove to E’town, picked up 13 kids who were standing out at their stops, and drove them to school before they discovered classes were canceled. Then she drove them back home again.

    The power went out just after 6:30 a.m. and came on again at 11 a.m. I guess my feelings were mixed. I took my snow shovel and stood staring at my untouched driveway. There is no way, I thought. But I have to try.

    “What are you trying to accomplish here?” W. Whitehouse asked from the cab of his really cool powerful W. WHITEHOUSE truck.

    “I just want to get my car out of the garage,” I said.

    He started plowing the driveway.

    “When I heard your pickup in back of me, I thought, ‘Is this God coming to plow me out?’” I shouted to him.

    “You can call it anything you want,” he answered.

    And now I can go anywhere I want.

    Have a good week.