A dispatch from cold-ravaged suburbia

We suffer. O! How we suffer.

Dear friend,

I hope this missive finds you well.

I write to you from the frozen depths of the Boston suburbs, where snow and relentless, bitter cold have tormented us for the past several weeks, with no sign of abating. As I write, the wind is howling through the barren trees, and I think I just heard our recycling bin fall over.

Our patio furniture has been nearly consumed by the snows, and the solar-powered lights along our front walk are long since buried, and are likely crushed. We probably should have brought them inside when the first storm was imminent, but whatever. One can’t think of everything.

Neither our Subaru nor our Toyota have escaped the ravages of Old Man Winter, their flanks being now streaked and scoured with the residue of rock salt. The side door of our garage seems to have been warped by the frigid air, and won’t close completely, leaving the bicycles, the grill, the cornhole boards, and other warm-weather sundries exposed to winter’s wrath—a cruel metaphor for…something.

There is a certain beauty in the snow, I grant you: the alabaster undulations across the lawns, the play of light upon the crystalline surfaces, the artful, shovel-carved trenches that define our front walks and driveways. But patches of yellow left by neighborhood dogs have begun to proliferate and it’s gross.

Also: There are some people in our neighborhood who seem to think they don’t have to shovel the entire sidewalk in front of their house—just a little path between their driveway and front door, such that pedestrians, including our long-suffering postman, Julio, must risk death by walking in streets narrowed by the great white banks. I am not inclined to wish misfortune upon anyone, striving as I do to be a merciful woman of strong moral fiber. But I would not be ill-disposed to see the neighborhood dogs totally go to town on the snow outside the homes of those jerks.

Perhaps the most irksome aspect of these harsh conditions, however, is the difficulty they impose upon our daily travails. Having to don boots and all manner of winter garments before taking out the trash is but a minor inconvenience. However greater ones plague us: Just last week, our dishwasher failed to function for several hours as a result of its being positioned against a poorly-insulated exterior wall of our house, which caused the hoses to freeze. There was much lamenting and despair.

Meanwhile, walking to CVS as I am often wont to do as a means of combining fortifying physical activity and thrift—those ExtraBucks won’t spend themselves!—is perilous and unpleasant on account of the biting cold and the aforementioned unshoveled sidewalks and visible dog pee.

But amidst so much hardship, we take solace in our good fortune. We have not taken ill, nor have we gone hungry. Our firewood is plentiful, as are our streaming service subscriptions. Our new snowblower, which we share with our neighbor, is mighty and effective. And the Olympics are on, which is fun.

I earnestly hope that if you, too, are trapped beneath the weight of winter’s icy thumb, you are endeavoring to perservere in good spirits. And if you are in more temperate climes, I celebrate your good fortune, and hope you are able to profit fully from it. But, seriously, keep it to yourself.

I remain your cold yet obedient servant,

J. Rope

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All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, I’d be deeply grateful if you would consider leaving me a one-time tip or upgrading to a paid subscription. Or, hey, buy my book! Thank you as always for reading. xoxo

P.S. I’ve got a few events coming up—including conversations with the magnificent Jenna Blum (Murder Your Darlings) and Kirsten King (A Good Person) and a few online writing classes. Check ‘em out!

P.P.S. After far too long, I’ve updated my copywriting, brand strategy, and editing services website. Take a look if you’re curious about what I do when I’m not writing novels or penning eloquent epistles about the horrors of winter in the ‘burbs.