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Driving home around 4 p.m. yesterday up the Southeast Expressway, I realized I needed to buy new windshield wipers. The levels of snow and salt and frozen rain and more snow have taken their toll, leaving giant streaks that immediately smudged and fogged up and took the already limited visibility of the early stage of what is now our fourth major snow storm in the past three weeks (plus all those little 3-5 inch jobs in between) down to almost nothing. I have to think I used most of my windshield wiper fluid cleaning up as I drove the final 10 miles home.

So, windshield wipers are on my shopping list now. I’ve already bought four new tires, road salt and extra long johns to wear underneath all the other layers that have been somehow even more necessary that usual. After I got home, the latest blizzard really got to work, and I woke up this morning to the most snow I’ve ever seen. Seven feet of snow have fallen in Boston and practically none of it has melted. February in New England is never a picnic, but this is insanity.

And so begins the search for little victories in this never-ending blizzard. There are a lot of movies to catch up on. We try to get out for a drink every couple of nights just to get out of the apartment. We caught a Celtics game a week ago, which was a blast and a nice taste of normalcy in this psychological experiment disguised as winter.

Otherwise, I’m stuck at home. And I pass the time playing guitar, or writing nonsense, or playing the lineup game with the Red Sox, sketching in where Brock Holt could hit if Pablo Sandoval takes a day off or how Allen Craig can fit in assuming he or Shane Victorino isn’t traded before the season starts.

And that season starting is one of the true beacons through this winter. I’m not usually the type to be counting the days until pitchers and catchers report, but even the Bruins and Celtics haven’t been enough to help get through this ridiculous period. Snow is one thing, and what usually happens is that there’s one major storm in the winter and a few other pockets of snow through the months before March’s daylight peeks through. Instead, it’s just been a relentless wave of disruptions. It has to end at some point.

So this weekend, I bought my first Red Sox tickets of the year, picking up two right-field seats for a weekend game against the Orioles in April. It’s hard to imagine the entire Fenway Park roof not covered in the mountains of powder Boston has seen in the past three weeks. But this my attempt at stubborn New England insistence that this is just part of living here, and that this will stop eventually.

There will come a point where I’m not having to buy add-ons and replacements for my car specifically because of a weekly blizzard. I won’t have to keep going out in the middle of 20-mile-per-hour wind gusts to clear snow out of vents. I won’t have to knock the salt off my boots before coming back into the apartment. When I sit down at my desk, I won’t see a giant wall of white through the window.

Instead, I’ll be leaning over the rail on the right field roof deck at Fenway Park with a beer in my left hand and  a pencil in my right hovering over a score book. And I’ll look out and see David Ortiz, hitting in front of Hanley Ramirez, working a two-strike count on a balmy 60-degree afternoon. That’s the hope, anyway.

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