Daryl tells me that this winter does not even compare to the snows of 1717, which he read about recently in The New Yorker. He was especially taken with the descriptions of the herds of cattle that were buried in snow drifts only to emerge weeks later once the snow had melted, frozen upright as if they were still alive. I have to admit I've felt very much like that on several occasions.
So perhaps this season's flurries cannot be said to be epic, but they are certainly noteworthy. As such, I had no real expectation that we would in fact be heading to the airport today. But we are. And we will trade our narrowed tunnel-like streets for those of Chicago. In the meantime, we will attempt to corral the baby through the airport, minimize the screaming (hers and ours), and forget about our $1500 heating bill.
And we'll turn down the thermostat before we go.