I know the anniversary of the arrival of the Greatest Blizzard, the "perfect storm" of 1978, was yesterday, and I'm also aware that there are at least a few people who will hear that characterization and say accusingly, "What about the Blizzard of 1888?" or any of the other nor'easters that left us with several feet of snow, downed power lines, and supermarket shelves stripped bare of bread, milk, and toilet paper—the three apparent necessities of life. (My RI supermarkets don't carry beer and wine, so I can't vouch for the availability of those critical items, but, I suspect, they also vanished ahead of any significant winter gale.) Those other storms duly acknowledged, I'd still opt for '78 as the Greatest in my lifetime, and that said, a special storm deserves a semi-extended reminiscence. The day after the nor'easter headed for the Maritimes, the sun came out, the winds calmed down, and we had a chance to explore an utterly transformed landscape... make that snowscape. We wouldn't see any sign of ground for at least a few weeks.