We did our regular weekly grocery shopping today. We put it off yesterday because Second Son came home for a visit.
Bad luck. Bad choice.
Snow was forecast (well, actually, it’s coming down at a pretty good clip as I type this–looks like a couple of inches on top of what’s left on the ice from last week’s storm–and I do mean ice) and no signs of stopping any time soon–the forecast is one to four inches, followed by freezing rain for about twelve hours (ouch! more ice).
The supermarket was mobbed.
Now, this is hardly a wilderness–unlike, say eastern Colorado, where houses may be miles apart and many miles from the nearest services.
There is hardly anyone in my neighborhood who lives more than a 15 -minute walk from at least a convenience store–maybe 20 minutes with snow on the ground.
Yet, when snow is forecast, citizens’ eyes glaze over and, like zombies, people head for the supermarket, there to scarf up all the bread and milk in sight (even if they don’t eat bread and don’t drink milk) in some sort of primitive, mute ritual.
It’s some kind of bizarre, sublimal reflex, as if the word, “snow,” triggers a vision of the Yukon and, somewhere deep in their subconscious, people imagine themselves marooned in their log cabins until Sergeant Preston digs them out, three episodes from now.
It’s fantastically, farcically in(s)ane.