Throughout New England the sound and symbol of hope has been the low-tech yellow plow. It was and for some still is the only way to be able to move on from superstorm Nemo.
Here in the 1,400 unit complex where I live we cocked our ears for days to pick up on their arrival. On Monday afternoon, the posse arrived. For my parking lot, the first plow wasn't big enough. When the driver headed out, the security guard assured us that he would be back, with a "much larger plow." I have a hunch the guard feared a riot.
But the driver did return. Although it was dark by time we could begin digging out our individual cars, we felt it was morning in America. We had hope that we could make it to a store, any store, to buy what we hadn't had since Friday afternoon. We could show up for work. We could, as the car has always promised, get away from what is and open ourselves on the road to fantasies or even concrete plans of what could be.