The Decemberists

There are different ways to celebrate the first snow fall. None of them are particularly glorious in New York city.

My friends and I holed up at Mama’s Food Shop off Avenue B to feast on fried chicken, roasted brussel sprouts and soupy mashed potatoes. We uncorked champagne and toasted with little plastic cups before vanguishing into the flurry-filled night.

Thompson Square Park was silent. Avenue B was silent.

The snow turned to slush, and a guy ran past us on the sidewalk, scooping off a layer of stiff accumulations from the dashboard of a car. He fashioned a dense snow ball and chucked it at his friend. They ran by, stamping into the night, as fast as they could down the avenue.

We gathered in front of the wood fireplace at the Boxcar. I sipped scotch. The draft from the open door seeped in, and we crowded closer to the fire. The Rolling Stones sang about a loving cup.

The snow continued to fall; light and small and wet. I would say everything was sparkling, but it wasn’t really. The puddles were shining and the sidewalks gathered shallow pockets of slush.

The celebration was at hand in one way or another.

slush

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