Tom jitterbugs the forecast—and comes up short

It’s official.

According to the New York Times:

“The National Weather Service said 26.9 inches of snowfall was measured in Central Park at 4:10 p.m., exceeding the previous record of 26.4 inches, set in December 1947.”

That’s December 26 and 27, 1947, to be precise.

So we got dumped on this weekend. The funny thing is, you wouldn’t really know it here in Lower Manhattan. I don’t know if it’s because most of the snow wound up on the rooftops, what with the buildings standing so close together in these parts; or if it’s because Manhattan Island narrows at the southern tip, and the howling winds of this nor’easter just blew the bulk of the white stuff by us.

Or maybe it just didn’t snow as much down here. If I had to guess, I’d say we got about 18 inches. But over two feet? Nah, not here.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s plenty of snow around. The building outside my window, a stately, red-brick structure that went up in the early 20th century, now looks almost edible, the snow along its ledges resembling wedding-cake icing. And early this morning Ilsa the wonder dog and I had to cut short our walk—or rather, trudge—after about three blocks because the sidewalks had yet to be cleared. At one point Ilsa almost disappeared as she inadvertently bounded past the curb and into the unplowed street.

Martin the doorman tells me he just got back from the Poconos, and up there only five inches dusted the roads. Queens, where he lives, is another matter entirely. “Buried,” he says. He dreads driving home. “I’ll bet I’ll need around two hours just to find a parking space,” he says without exaggeration.

Meanwhile, on Long Island my brother Tom is reveling in this, the biggest snowstorm to capture his imagination. Tom’s a big fan of snowstorms and hurricanes. The more awesome the display of Mother Nature, the more he cheers. He’s also a bit of a jitterbug boy. Let's just say if tall tales played basketball, his would play center.

But not even Tom could stretch the truth about the magnitude of today’s precipitation. Last night, as the snow just started sticking to the wet street outside Patty’s Inn, one of his local haunts, Tom stood at the bar, diet Coke in hand, and proclaimed to all the patrons within earshot, “We’re gonna get up to two feet! It’s gonna be a monster! Woo-hoo!”

“Sure, Tom,” answered the barman, pouring a draft and rolling his eyes. “That’s why the weather report says 12 inches at most.”

Like I said, Tom is in his glory today. Today his jitterbugging was actually outdone by Mother Nature.