In a snowy area, there will always be someone laughing at the run on bread, milk, and eggs before a storm. John heard a commentator on the radio wondering what would happen to all the supplies people scooped up. A newspaper showed a photo of the bread section, as bare as Old Mother Hubbard’s Cupboard. Our forecast promised 3 to 5 inches of snow, gradually whittled down to 3, and then 1.
Well, guess what! I checked our supply, and we were almost out of two items, milk and eggs. We went out in an early flurry, buying everything on our small list. To Ingle’s credit, no shelves were picked over. Much as I dislike being a carbon copyist, you know we’ll become part of some storm statistic.
I’ll bet there aren’t many couples that would sit down on the morning of a storm to watch the 7th and last episode of a documentary on the Roosevelts. If we were going to make an emergency run to town, it would include dropping things at the library. We should have known better. These two errands stopped the snow in its tracks. I meant to go out to measure the snow where it was piled up. It might have been as thick as an “i” lying down.