On the afternoon of February 27, several water tower staff members were collected in the Howe Library, working diligently and dreaming of a day when the Cyber Cafe would once again open its pearly gates and offer endless supplies of hot cocoa to the ravenous masses. I was gazing out the window like an angsty teen riding in the backseat of their mom’s Honda Accord, picturing themselves as the main character in an emotional music video for, like, The Fray, or something. As I cast my eyes to the gleaming glass panes of the media lab windows, I saw the winter threatening to knock once again on my delicate door. Just like the rest of you gullible Vermonter blockheads, I have been known to be lured into a false sense of security by a single day of decent weather in late February. I’m so desperate for a single shot of sunshine that I allow myself to believe in the ancient Homerian myth of springtime. Fat chance.
Spring was nowhere in sight this critical Sunday, despite the early morning sunshine and the lack of evil winds strong enough to blow squirells out of trees and birds off of powerlines. We were lied to! We were schemed! Scammed and deceived! The squall arrived instantaneously, without warning. There was no way for us to know what we were in for. All that we could do was sit feebly in the media center and watch, as God’s angry hand foisted down upon us in real time, in the form of the classic Northeastern winter weather event known only as the squall.
I shuddered as I watched the fallen snow sweep itself up into the violent winds, as the naked branches of trees whipped against the library’s walls, as campus itself disappeared behind the power of the inimitable squall. I thought of my long walk back to my room, and I thought of my own inability to face any kind of physical danger without shrinking in fear. But what if it’s cold, I thought to myself. What if I slip on some ice and look momentarily look silly while regaining my balance? What if my beautiful face is whipped so cruelly by the wind that I become immediately disfigured and can no longer coast through life on the easy charms of my devilish good looks? Imagine!
Alas, soon the library will close. As I prepare myself for the long journey back to my humble room in the Living and Learning Complex, I am in such a mood to use words like ‘alas’. In facing death, I have become very morose and noble and heroic. I am just like the sexy guy from The Lord of the Rings as he walks into Mordor, bravely facing the unknown. In an effort to spread awareness about the serious dangers of snow squalls to human girls, this article will only be published in the event of my death. If you’re reading this, know that I spent my last moments feeling hopeful about the future, even as I was vacuumed into the endless snow tornado, never to be seen again by human eyes. Beware of the squall. Not one of us is above its power.