Stuck in a Snowstorm

A Canadian’s Love Letter to Boredom, Cabin Fever,
and Questionable Life Choices

There’s a very specific moment in every snowstorm “event” here in the South when optimism officially dies. It’s not when the snow starts falling. It’s not even when the roads close — that feels dramatic and vaguely thrilling. No, optimism dies when I check the weather app for the ninth time — 10 days prior to said event in a state that does not do well in snow. Or winter. Or cold. 

None of this is cute for me. The cold, the snow, the potential water freezing, the potential power outage, toilets freezing, cooking on a camping stove in the backyard for guests that may or may not have heat in a cottage that they may or may not be able to drive to, and that I may or may not have to refund or rebook.

No, I rage about Texas electrical lines apparently snapping at less than a quarter inch of ice, or the power grid that apparently only Texans can maintain and own.… Outdoor condenser units freezing, or emergency heat on said units that cost a trillion dollars. I know, it’s the secret society of contractors to build inefficient everything. To drip or stream. The taps, not the contractors. Although that has a certain thrill for me. Open lower cabinet doors. I never heard of ANY of this before my Texas life. 

Is there no such thing as wrapped pipes on an outside wall? Please, talk to Canadian builders, my god they can help you out. Out of all the years of living up north, losing power was never even on the list. Pipes worked on all walls in all directions.

Now, the Texans are cute about all of this. Bless Their Hearts.… Grocery stores are empty four days prior, 408,000 bottles of water are stacked in one shoppers cart, and toilet paper till the year 2029 in another. How many squares per bum is that exactly? I shout at my phone as I scroll telling them that if the toilet freezes, ain’t no use for that toilet paper.

Panic ensues. They get cash. What are they buying? They fill up the vehicle. Where are they going? It’s the diehards that are standing outside trying to get inside the store on Friday eve.… Those are not my spirit animals. Fools I say. 

I think the food is the funniest. Carts overflowing with so much food…. Is this the only time there is food in houses? What happens the other 361 and a half days? What are they “stocking up” for? Armageddon? Are they never coming out of their houses again? I have food in my house. All. The.Time. I could eat for weeks and be ok. Mind you, I could stand to eat a few less meals.… 

The cute Texans also procure all non essential items they will later use for “sleds” down the closest hill or street. Upside down tables, laundry baskets, baking tins. I have Instagram. I saw the evidence with my eyes. I know what I see. Now don’t get me wrong. My younger years were built on being pulled on car hoods and inner tubes behind snow mobiles – but in fields. Wide open fields.… 

So I know I will be trapped inside during the snowstorm. Not the heroic, pioneer kind where I have fashion snowshoes and ration beans. This is the modern version — I hope to have heat, Wi-Fi, snacks, and be okay with sitting for a spell.

Friday night, my Haslet ladies do a group chat of checking on each other. They discuss who has made what — chicken and dumplings and chili — and generators hooked up to microwaves. Lisa only has peanut butter and jam, she laments. Highly doubtful, I think. Brenda is in jammies with her 27 dogs sitting on her and the bottle of wine within reach. Jane declares she is not coming outside the house walls ‘til it is warm. Others talk about filling bathtubs for the toilet. Cindy declares she will make cookies. Wow. The world is coming to an end. Will we never see each other again? Is there something I don’t know? Businesses shutter. Schools close. 

So I tell myself this will be cozy. Of course I am lying to myself. I light a candle. I make tea. I say things like, “Honestly, this is kind of nice.” I romanticize it. Just like home I ponder.… I imagine myself just being okay with sitting. I can sleep in tomorrow. 

I never sleep in, who am I kidding.

Sleeping at night is filled with one ear open for fear the furnace has quit and I will die in bed like Kate Winslet in the freezing Atlantic in the Titanic quietly
calling for my dog Gibson. 

Later, I am standing at the window like a Victorian child waiting for a telegram that will never come. “Please Sir” with my tin plate in hand. The pacing has already started. 

The snowstorm brings boredom in waves. The first wave is productive boredom. I clean things that don’t need cleaning. I peruse boxes of pictures in the closet — damn I looked good in my 20s. I am personally offended that Texas is treating me this way with this weather. I plan to work out.  

I don’t. 

The second wave is nostalgic boredom. Suddenly, I am thinking about my 16-year-old self suntanning on top of the barn with baby oil slathered all over me. Skin cancer has not yet been invented, apparently. Other weird thoughts enter my brain — once filled with productive thoughts, now useless. I remember when moms would spit in their hands to smooth down kids’ hair. Blockbuster was the best, and why did we all have to learn to play the piano in the 70s? The metronome comes to mind… violent and aggressive as my current mood. 

I can hear my dad’s voice raised and saying, “I will give you something to cry about!”

There is some reluctant responsibility. People still email me. Pesky things such as property taxes are due and my credit card from December.…  People still expect things from me. Articles to write. And yet — no one is actually doing anything. We’re all pretending, collectively, that productivity is happening while secretly staring out windows and contemplating naps. I triple up on walking the dog. I read two books.

By day four, food doesn’t even do it for me. Not because I am not hungry, but because time has lost meaning. I eat things sans vegetables now. Trail mix followed by some chocolate left over from Greek Night last September… followed by “just one more handful” of corn nuts. The marathon of TV watching is in full swing. 

Then comes peak boredom — the existential phase. I sit. I scroll through cute dog reels and content creators with great new recipes. I consider texting people I haven’t spoken to in years, not because I miss them, but because I need external stimulation, and they once liked the same band as me in 2001. The wine on the counter beckons me before noon.…  I start leaving my body and see myself from above.…  The fireplace is constantly burning. 

I ponder (oh so briefly) that I should get my Italian books out and brush up on the language I have since forgotten. Vino. Of course I remember that word.

Eventually, I circle back to nostalgia again. I remember when boredom wasn’t something to escape — it was just part of life. It made room for imagination. For staring at the ceiling. For thinking thoughts all the way through. Snowstorms forced stillness, and I know that this stillness is ephemeral. 

I will endure. 

God Bless Texas. 

Colleen McCullough is the owner of The Virginia May Bed and Breakfast @ Eagle Mountain Lake. You can follow the BnB on Instagram and Facebook
@thevirginiamay

TheVirginiaMay.com | 817.739.3935
11671 Randle Ln. | Fort Worth, TX 76179