Let’s talk about winter.
Winter is adorable…
Until it confiscates your car.
Snow? Lovely.
Twinkling flakes drifting down like a Hallmark movie audition? Magical.
Hot cocoa? Yes please.
Fireplace glow? Cozy.
But the minute a travel ban goes into effect, winter transforms from charming New England postcard… into an overbearing hall monitor with a whistle and a citation pad.
“Where do you think you’re going, Mr. Independence?”
I mean honestly — we Americans measure freedom in horsepower. The ability to get in a vehicle and go somewhere — anywhere — is practically a constitutional amendment in Rhode Island.
Need milk? We drive.
Need bread? We drive.
Need to think? We drive.
Need to avoid thinking? We definitely drive.
And now?
We stare out the window like Victorian children with consumption.
I understand. I do. Cars on the road slow down plows. Safety matters. Infrastructure must function. Town trucks are performing heroic snow ballet maneuvers at 3 a.m.
I get it.
Doesn’t mean I have to like it.
Because summer would NEVER do this to us.
Summer says:
“Grab your keys. Go to the beach. Meet friends. Stay out too late. Have a mojito. Forget what day it is.”
Winter says:
“Sit down. Reflect. Also, your driveway has been re-plowed by the town truck. Again.”
And then there’s the real crisis:
What about Amazon?
Somewhere out there is a package containing something I didn’t know I desperately needed until 11:47 p.m. last night. And now it sits… in limbo. Possibly in Connecticut. Possibly in a snowbank. Possibly contemplating its own existence.
Deep breath.
Lower heart rate.
Count to ten.
This is when coping techniques kick in.
Technique #1:
Pacing dramatically from window to window as if expecting rescue helicopters.
Technique #2:
Shoveling the driveway even though it’s already clear, just to feel productive before the plow redecorates the entrance with a three-foot glacier.
Technique #3 (my personal favorite):
Seasonal hallucination.
I close my eyes and I am no longer trapped in Post-Blizzard Purgatory.
I’m back on the Narrow River.
The herons are statues with feathers.
Osprey are dive-bombing dinner with reckless elegance.
Bald Eagles are supervising from above like they personally approved the Constitution.
Summer smells like salt and sunscreen.
Winter smells like damp mittens and humility.
And yet…
There’s something quietly hilarious about being told by Mother Nature, “You are not in charge.”
She shuts the roads.
Silences the highways.
Humbles our SUVs.
And forces us to sit still long enough to remember that seasons change whether we approve of them or not.
So yes, my driveway is pristine.
Yes, I am fully aware the town truck is planning its next snow deposit at the entrance like a passive-aggressive gift.
Yes, I will shovel it again.
And in between rounds?
I’ll daydream about eagles, herons, and that first warm day when the travel ban lifts not just from the roads — but from the soul.
Until then…
Winter wins this round.
But summer is undefeated in the long game.
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