I woke up early on Monday morning and looked out the window. It was snowing, and I knew it. I recognized the snow for what it was. I did not grow up in the Arctic, but I did grow up in Western New York, and I knew exactly what kind of snow this was—small, sharp flakes, blown by a heavy wind, coming from the east, on a diagonal. I knew what it would feel like if I went outside and tried to walk to Fifth Avenue. I could remember how that snow felt on my face, as I walked home from school on a cold February day. I also knew that if I had gone outside yesterday, I might have had to change my mind. Experience tests knowledge. Maybe those snowflakes would be as wickedly sharp as I’d predicted, but maybe they wouldn’t.
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