While walking in the Harlem Meer section of Central Park earlier today, we came across this rather odd occurrence--a single mound of snow in early November. There having been no snowfall in the New York metropolitan area since last winter we were left to only grasp at the reason for such a weather phenomenon. Had we somehow angered a very localized nature spirit? Is global warming getting both intensely focused and quite honestly a little lazy? Is this what that ominous fortune cookie we got meant when it said "Buy more Chinese food?" Or did it somehow have something to do with the ice skating rink just off camera. Alas, we may never know.
Whatever the reason, this minor yet mighty snowdrift attracted children of all ages. Take this child for example. He's seven, 14, three, 34 and 87-years-old all at once. Oh, to be displaced from a single-dimensional sequence of events' grip once more. Cherish these innumerable times, young/old one, for they will be gone...or repeated or, well, I've confused myself...before you know it.
And here we have preseason's first snowball. Preseason is actually a a good time to check out this year's snowballs as they train to resume previous fitness levels, engage in exhibition games with other natural projectiles--like acorns or a fistful of gravel--and potentially promote snowballs to new audiences as they travel the country, melting.
Naturally, such an odd event as a singular, localized snowfall is an ominous sign, attracting people from all over (such as this worshipful mother and daughter) to dispel potential horrors by engaging in pagan idolatry, creating images of the premature winter gods to show their allegiance and be spared the death tolls that can only comes from six square feet of crystalized ice flakes.
Find their actions foolish? Then perhaps you, too, should consult that perennial guide to all matters meteorological, "The Old Farmer's Almanac." Since 1792, the almanac has made long-range weather forecasts using a time-tested approach and meticulous formula that have remained virtually unchanged for more than 200 hundred years. According to such age-old methodology, the almanac is predicting that come mid-November we can expect the following:
"The air shall be thick with witches. And grave portents. And manure. By the time of the great tobacco harvest many of ye townsfolk shall be stricken with ill spirits, a result of either lack of piety or uncooked quail. Grandparents and other 35-year-olds will be the first to suffer. The harvest will be blighted by demons, the milk will be curdled by Catholics and a low-pressure system will bring some much needed rain into the valley and adjacent regions. Bedlam will ensue in the mills, the smithies and the mead houses as the children of the elders will speak in tongues not of their own! We beg of thee, look to the livestock and insects for guidance!"
Well, there you have it. So for any of you who have long feared a dramatic spike in sorcery, possession and pestilence, your concerns have finally been justified.
And so we leave this magical but portentous scene, paying our due respects to this lovingly cast image of that most fearsome cosmic entity Cthulhu's younger brother, Jimmy. Pray he takes mercy on our souls this non-winter.
