God Put It There...

A French poet once asked "Where are the snows of yesteryear?" He could never have written that in Cambridge. The snows of yesterday are right here, underfoot with those of the year before, growing shaggy in the sun but patiently waiting for that chance to turn an ankle or crumple a car.

The determination and persistence of its snow is no new phenomenon for Cambridge. A few years ago a couple of Sno-Gos-those goose-necked tractors which effectively chew up snow and squirt it into trucks--briefly appeared in the Square, then disappeared without a trace. In their wake returned the good old snowplows, smearing the snow into well-glazed flat surfaces and impenetrable mounds.

There is only one good explanation for the disappearance of those Sno-Gos. That is the salutary and invigorating effect of the common snowplow on the activities of local policemen and their minions. At the first signs of snow the minions are out with their tow trucks. "Snow Removal," they mutter, as they yank your car off to their garage, looking nervously over their shoulders for the snout of the all-devouring plow looming up behind a drift. They might as well be looking for a Sno-Go. The tow trucks come and go, but still squatting in the rectangular grimy mounds where the cars have been is the snow, a little sullied but determined to stick out the winter.

And it probably will. The snow is transmuted now, no longer white and crystaline but tough and tenacious, resistant to rain and sunlight alike. It will lie dormant, waiting for that last clear shot at the springs of a passing car. And the frantic garagemen will push ahead with their car removal, racing the phantom plows, never realizing for a minute that God will take care of the snow.