Here’s one for the record books. And I don’t mean the storm, either, though it certainly dumped a huge amount of snow on us between Friday afternoon and early Saturday morning. My wife is still dealing with a cold, so I got up with the almost two year old when he stirred around 7am. We came downstairs, had a little breakfast and then moved into the living room to play with Legos.

Around 7:30 we saw our plow truck driver pull into the driveway – no surprise, of course, given the weather – and I brought the truck-obsessed little fellow to the window to observe. The plow pulled in, pushed the snow up a few times, creating a five or six foot wall of snow in the front of the driveway… and drove away. It looked as if he thought he couldn’t move it any further and packed it in, like a little kid who’s just broken something in the kitchen and figures if he runs away the rest of the family will blame it on the cat. The toddler was puzzled by the plow’s quick exit. “Truck?” he said, over and over, as I tried to put his mind back on Legos. “Truck?”

An hour later “truck” was back, coaxed into returning by the neighbors with whom we share our driveway. I was told the driver had said he couldn’t plow any further unless someone shoveled the wall o’snow away, but they said, um, you’re a plow truck. So he backed up, put the plow’s back into it, and away went the snow – well, most of it, anyway – we had to shovel our own cars out after all. Thank heavens another neighbor dropped by and used his snowblower to finish the job; later, a different truck, one I’d never seen before, came back and cleared us completely out.

If this really was a storm we’ll talk about years from now, the way people talk today about the blizzard of ’78, then this is the story I’ll be telling people about the blizzard of ’13.