Winter Storm Grayson, screamed the Weather Channel, was not only going to be the Real Thing, it was going to be The Bomb, as in a nor'easter that underwent a rapidly dropping barometric pressure regime because of an unusual phenomenon known as bombogenesis. Bomb cyclones, we were told in no uncertain terms—and red headlines—could be devastating, with high winds, frigid temperatures, and copious amounts of snow, even, when the atmosphere got sufficiently rattled, thundersnow. Grayson lived up to its advance billing, and as it arrived in the morning, quickly got down to serious business. I was ready, with plenty of wood and water indoors, the generator ready for action in the shed, and enough bread, milk, and toilet paper—all of which had been largely stripped off the shelves last night at the local supermarkets—to get us through at least a week. I think I was up for snowshoeing, but I wasn't at all certain about handling the shoveling chores. Maybe I could once again rely on the kindness of neighbors.