The Pun Also Rises

"The Snow Must Go On"

    The Berkshires are all about change. That's why I buy half-dollars every time I go to the bank. And there are plenty of banks to choose from within a half-dollar's throw of Main Street. But my bank sells me half-dollars for just fifty cents each. And I'll probably continue going there until I find a bank that sells them for forty-nine cents each. (How will that bank make money? Simple: Volume.)

    What I actually meant, though, was change in the weather. Last Sunday was incredibly warm. And Monday was fairly cold. You know what they say about New England climate - "If you like the weather, wait a minute, it'll change." And Tuesday last week was a snowstorm. A biiiiiiig snowstorm. It was so big that Mayor John Bear III ordered a city-wide hibernation, and those who failed to comply were eaten or had their cars towed - an equally grizzly fate.

    Anyway, the point is that there was a lot of snow. And that's something that I feel bears talking about. Now of course, when it comes to talking about snow, there's nobody better than the Eskimos. They say that Eskimos have nearly 30 words for snow, which I've always thought was very impressive. Then again, just last week I heard a number of words for snow, but unfortunately I can't repeat most of them in this column.

    Which is not to say that we can't talk about snow because we aren't Eskimos. (And when I say we, I mean those of us who are not Eskimos.) (And yes, this includes hungry men who eat eskimo pies, and cute girls in big eskimo coats.) We do experience snow, and so necessarily, we talk about it. We can differentiate between the pleasant drifting snow that floats gently down, and the blizzard that whips stinging snow into your eyes (and more troublingly, into my eyes). We can look at the ground and differentiate between the pure white mounds of snow and the grey puddles of slush.

    Well, usually we can differentiate. Sometimes what looks like a big mound of snow is actually a puddle of slush hiding underneath, and so you step on it expecting it to support your foot, when in fact your foot gets sucked into a giant puddle of slushy doom, and you walk into work with one dry foot and one wet foot and darker, soggy pantleg that trails water behind you as you slosh towards your desk while your boss asks you what happened and you try to smile while ignoring him and just getting to your chair.

    Hypothetically speaking, of course.

    Anyway, we do talk about snow, because talking about the weather is simply what people do. And one of the odd things about talking about the weather is that we usually look for agreement, regardless of whether we love it or hate it. I might walk up to you and say, "Isn't this snow beautiful? The whole city is covered in a beautiful white blanket of peace, and lacey mists of snow wind their way up and down Main Street like a frozen desert." And I'd expect you to say, "Yes, I love Spring in the Berkshires."

    Conversely, if I said, "The ground is covered in slush, the sidewalks aren't walkable, and I have to walk backwards to avoid the snow being whipped in my face," I might expect you to say, "Yeah, this is lousy weather."

    But perhaps it would be better if you said, "Hey, that's Spring in the Berkshires, so you should enjoy the snow." Because we've got some snow that's going to be here whether it makes us happy or upset, so we may as well smile at it. There truly is something magical about being in a world that literally sparkles, a world cold and crisp and shiny where a hush has fallen over the town, and the only noises we hear are the faint sounds of your car being towed.

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    Seth Brown is a local humor writer who still isn't sure whether he likes snow or not. He appears frequently in the Washington Post's Style Invitational, infrequently in various other publications, and once in book form -- in his first book "Think You're The Only One?", published by Barnes & Noble. His Web site is www.RisingPun.com

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