When my daughter Betsy first moved to Boston in the summer of 2021 for her fellowship at Brigham and Women's, a native Bostonian advised me --- a real Southerner --- against coming to Bean Town in January or February. She cautioned, "Even March can be dicey." But the first two months of the year were to be avoided at all cost.
And as we soon discovered, even April had the potential for snow. Flakes fell on my husband Rodney and me the following spring as we exited Boston's Citizen Bank Opera House where we saw "To Kill A Mockingbird" with Richard Thomas as Atticus on Easter Sunday. At first, we mistook the precipitation for rain. After all, we are Southerners.
But it pays to listen. I should have accepted guidance, and good intentions, from locals. As it turned out, that wise woman who dispensed unsolicited advice was right. January 2026 in New England was a real bear. But when our only child and grandchild phone, I come running --- especially for little Lukas Karl Cecil Green. Both of his parents were on call. And this is how I ended up in the thick of it, the weekend of January 23, 2026, in Southern New Hampshire --- staring down a snow storm of infinite proportions. Take it from me, it was everything that was advertised.
Preparation took its usual format, sort of like a hurricane --- multiple trips to Market Basket to stock up, a fill-up at a nearby service station so Betsy would have a full tank of gas, and my perfunctory visit to the beauty parlor where I not only got my hair done but also got the lay of the land from native New Englanders. My friends Rose and Kim, who do my hair when I am in town, and the regular ladies getting cuts and color were not concerned, not in the least. They sanctioned supplies in the form of scrumptious snacks, and alcohol, and seemed to be more in a tizzy about the Mile High Showdown -- their beloved Patriots playing the Broncos in Denver that Sunday.
But they were relieved to hear that I had made a trip to the LL Bean store, up the street in Salem, where I had invested in a real mountain down parka, just in case. My daughter and son-in-law's home, situated on the top of a hill in New Hampshire, is exceptionally cozy, but what if we had to venture outside or what if we lost power?
Suffused with "what if's," I am nothing if not a natural born worrier. It is hereditary from my mother and grandfather before me. While I had packed leather gloves and fleece lined hats, my big coat, which is significant in South Louisiana, suddenly seemed insufficient. Temperatures in Salem, New Hampshire, fell to zero on Saturday with 12 degrees for the high, in advance of the snow storm advancing Sunday and Monday. By then, my flight out of Logan on Monday was a fantasy.
Fortunately for me, my daughter, son-in-law, and precious grandson had booked their own mid-week flight home to New Orleans so with plans in the air, I could join them if necessary. And speaking of my son-in-law Erik, he was the epitome of cool, calm, and collected with the storm upon us --- surprising really, with his upbringing in La Jolla, California, and its consistently comfortable climate. But Erik spent his undergraduate years at Cornell University where he not only graduated from the Ivy League but also endured treacherous winters in Ithaca, New York. Nice, sunny weather is not the town's long suit. So Erik has plenty of experience dealing with wicked weather, trudging through snow to class. And on top of that, he is a cardiothoracic surgeon, operating well under pressure.
Turning up the thermostat and the fireplace, Erik wasn't fazed by the forecast of the Arctic blast and heavy snow. Contrast his demeanor with mine, a native of South Louisiana. In fact, I have never lived anywhere else.
But stuck in New Hampshire, I took a seat by the window; their upstairs guest room has an unvarnished view of the woods --- bare trees scattered across yet another hill --- behind their home. And curled up with Lukas, we listened to the wind whistle and watched the snow coat the trees, drifting down and forming banks, like something out of a movie. Except it wasn't.
As soon as the snow plows completed their expert job --- they clear all the way up to Betsy and Erik's porch and garage --- I was on the road, in a car with an experienced driver headed south toward Boston. The entire region was a winter wonderland, a work of art courtesy of nature.
It wasn't but a year ago, in January of 2025, that Washington Parish was bombarded with just such white magic. But once a year is enough for me, and I've had my fill for this one. It was the coldest I have ever been outdoors, surpassing a long ago Christmas we spent in Colorado and my own personal record cold in Norway.
As for the future, I have no further plans to visit New England again in January or February unless, of course, Lukas calls. As my mother always said, "Never say never."
