I admit it. I was wrong.
I really had thought spending the winter in south-western Michigan would mean escape from 35 years of relentless snow. Until well into February, I was right. The total snowfall had been negligible. And so when the forecast called for six to eight inches and everyone started to panic, I called it Michigan snowmageddon and mocked the locals who were rushing to the supermarket to clear the aisles of bread and milk and cancelling every event in sight. Even without a snowblower, my superior level of fitness and a trusty shovel would be enough to face any challenge a feeble American winter could throw at a battle-hardened Canadian.