Snowmageddon’s Revenge
Alright, this one’s personal. I shoveled snow outside my house four separate times today. FOUR!
By the end of it, our highly scientific and incredibly accurate measurement method—a yardstick taped to a stake in the ground—showed that we’d gotten about 10 inches. Not as much as some people I know dealt with, but that’s still a huge amount of snow in one day. Certainly enough to make my back aware of just how underutilized it is sitting at a desk all day!
Besides all the shoveling, everything was still. The silence was almost oppressive. There was literally no traffic, and everything was eerily quiet, almost apocalyptic. I live near the intersection of two major roadways, so it was like I was suddenly out in the country somewhere with ear plugs in. A couple people were out walking their dogs in the middle of the street. Some younger kids were bundled up and laughing, playing in piles of snow half as tall as they were.
I am always astonished at how much snow can deaden acoustics, especially outdoors. It feels like everything has been wrapped in insulation, muting the sound of the lone car engine as it passes. For being only seven miles from downtown Pittsburgh, the silence (and frankly, the complete absence of activity) was jarring.
After photographing Red Caiman Studios recently, I had made the realization that my 14mm lens was not quite wide enough for some applications, so I ordered a 10mm, knowing I will need it when I go back to capture the rest of their spaces once they are completed. I can’t thank my friend Robby at YM Camera enough! Even though it was backordered, he was able to get one to me just in time for the storm, which felt less like coincidence and more like when your mom tells you that “everything happens for a reason.”
At ten millimeters, a small community like Etna during a gigantic winter storm no longer feels like just a quiet neighborhood staying inside by the fireplace. Instead, it felt more like a scene out of The Day After Tomorrow. Everything looked so different, even just outside our own front door. The images I took revealed how different everyday life can look without people in such wide-angle scenes. Walking through the smaller roads and unplowed alleys between the houses in our neighborhood reinforced the feeling of solitude.
That much snow has a way of stripping away the visual context you don’t know that you rely on to feel comfortable in your own space. Add a lens that wide, and whatever familiarity remains is also gone. What I saw today was a version of my community that felt suspended in time.
The activity that I did notice was from our local first responders. Etna Borough and Shaler Township stayed on top of plowing the main roads. (Thank you!) The side streets and alleys may have been temporarily bypassed, but every time I was out shoveling, they were there reminding me that this was still a place being cared for.
Somewhere in the middle of Snowmageddon’s Revenge, I started thinking about the people in my neighborhood. Many are older, there are a lot of families with dogs that need walking, and anyone that I saw out and about basically had to stick to walking in the middle of the plowed streets. So, in addition to keeping my own sidewalk cleared, I shoveled a path the whole length of my block to help with those that needed to be out weathering this intense storm.
By the time evening settled in and the storm was finally slowing, my back started yelling at me for every shovel load of the day. Between the snow, the silence, and that new lens, I’d had my fill.
Yeah, it was a pretty intense storm, but the snow will melt and that new lens will keep widening my perception of reality. Etna will wake back up, and life will go back to normal. But today reminded me that with a simple change of condition or perspective, even the most familiar places can become a completely different version of themselves.
Sometimes that is exactly where the story lives.
