There’s a difference between a snowstorm and a blizzard.
A snowstorm is nostalgic. It’s the snow globe version of winter. Gentle flakes drifting down like whispered promises. The kind you order up for Christmas Eve when the fireplace is lit, the grandchildren are sugared up, and someone is pretending they didn’t go back for thirds of lasagna. Snow like that decorates life.
A blizzard does not decorate life.
A blizzard rearranges it.
Yesterday in Narragansett, Mother Nature decided to demonstrate the full operating capacity of wind, water, and frozen gravity. Thirty-three inches officially. But if you’ve ever measured snow in Rhode Island, you know “official” and “in your driveway” are two very different metrics.
This wasn’t postcard snow.
This was wind-driven, wet, sticky, shoulder-testing snow. The kind that clings to your shovel like it’s filing a grievance. The kind that laughs at your snowblower and whispers, “You sure about that?”
And in the middle of it all, my phone rang.
Dad.
Let me clarify.
My 93-year-old father called to make sure I was okay.
There is something profoundly humbling about that. At 93, eyesight not what it used to be, legs a little less eager, but the instinct to protect his son? Fully intact. When I told him I’d just come in from my first clearing, he responded with the same affectionate diagnosis he’s delivered for decades:
“You’re crazy.”
Now, Dad had conducted his own blizzard reconnaissance. He opened his front door to “check the driveway.” What he actually did was receive a 20-degree wind slap directly across the face. Snow shot sideways into the foyer. He closed the door with the efficiency of a man who has lived long enough to recognize folly.
“I’ll wait for the sun,” he decided.
Wisdom often looks like retreat.
Meanwhile, I was out there explaining to him that this particular variety of snow does not age well. Wet snow compresses. It conspires. It becomes something closer to artisanal concrete if left unattended. This was the kind you remove a foot at a time—or it removes you.
But here’s what matters.
After clearing my own driveway (twice), I moved on to three neighbors who needed the help.
One recovering from surgery.
One older couple who would never ask.
One family juggling kids and work and life.
And somewhere between the third pass of the snowblower and the fourth shovel scrape, something shifted.
Yes, I was exhausted. My shoulders were conducting their own protest rally. My gloves and jacket were soaked. My face had frozen into a small glacier.
But I was also filled with something warmer than any fireplace.
There is a particular tenderness that emerges in weather like this. A quiet, unspoken agreement that we belong to each other. Storms don’t just test infrastructure. They test—and reveal—character.
Weather events.
Family crises.
Illness.
Moments when life tilts sideways.
These are not interruptions to our humanity.
They are invitations.
We all have gifts. Sometimes they’re dramatic. Sometimes they’re simple. A shovel. A snowblower. A phone call from a 93-year-old father reminding you that love still checks in.
The blizzard coated the trees and buried the lawns. It made the world monochrome.
But underneath all that white was something vivid and unmistakable:
Connection.
Because when we give—really give—something remarkable happens. We walk back inside physically depleted, but spiritually taller. The hot coffee tastes better. The chair feels earned. The exhaustion carries gratitude in its pockets.
And the phrase “You’re crazy” starts to sound a lot like,
“I’m proud of you.”
Blizzards show us what nature can do.
Helping each other shows us what we can do.
And that, my friends, is the full measure of being human.
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