I changed my mind
Were any of you out and about on Sunday? As the sleet piled up, driving on Peabody streets became more and more like driving in sand dunes. That is something I must admit I have never experienced in frozen white stuff. You gotta love this state! Nothing is ever mundane or average.
And this is what I get for writing an editorial about nice old boring weather in plain old temperate Kansas
Seems we can't have a regular snowfall that just comes straight down from the sky and makes piles of white fluffy stuff all over. Nah, we have to have mounds of sleet, or dry snow covering a sheet of ice (in April), or snow with wind gusting to 55 miles an hour, or snow AND sleet with thunder and lightning. What was it I said a couple of weeks ago? Ahhh, Kansas? Well, it isn't boring, that is for sure.
I did go out late Sunday afternoon to try and snag a picture for the front page of the paper. There certainly wasn't much in the way of picturesque winter scenery. It all looked pretty bleak and unpleasant. Curtis Gray finally came along in the city plow, moving the mounds of sleet off of Walnut and some of the side streets. None of the pictures I took of him pushing snow will ever make a calendar shot, that's for sure.
I also expect our kids missed out on a snow day. They already had Monday off for the Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday. If classes had been scheduled they would have gotten a snow day for sure because there wasn't much moving during the weekend or early Monday morning. Some holiday, huh? The weather was so crummy they couldn't go out and have any fun. Bummer. Bet they got a head start on second semester homework.
Only the Geezer Group members up at Food Mart looked like they were enjoying the camaraderie of "hangin' out" in the bad weather. The coffee was hot, Mary Burke didn't care if they tracked in snow and slush, and there was always someone new arriving with another tale of weather-related heroics. I guess it doesn't get much better than that and it's good that someone is inclined to enjoy it. They may even end up with some amazing stories about the winter of "aught-seven."
You go, fellas.
— SUSAN MARSHALL
