Weather forecasts, stocking up on supplies, and ensuring I can work from home have dominated my week so far.
I ended last week with officiating my daughter's wedding, which was the honor of my life, but I'll save that story for next week.
The winter weather has dominated the state in just about every literal sense.
I've seen so many photos of kids playing and the elation of a winter wonderland. Many young parents including my daughter celebrating a first snow with tender-aged children.
For me, it's a reminder of a night that could have taken my life, and the life of my mother.
January 1984, eighth grade, and the weather in Clay County was much like it has been this week and will be until at least Friday.
Snow piled up on the roads and the temperatures were in the teens with near zero wind chill.
Mom worked in a nursing home in Campbell, Mo. and stayed with friends for a couple of days to be closer and not have us out and about because she didn't drive.
After a couple of nights of mom being gone, Dad decided he was going to get Mom. We lived about 15 minutes from her work, the route necessitated a stretch of gravel road and a blacktop county stretch before hitting Highway 62 into Missouri. He got there just fine, but coming home was a different story.
It's important to note that Dad dropped me and my younger brother off with a neighbor, Mutt and Leta Renard, who vowed to keep us up until my parents could get back to pick us up and go home.
Around 1 a.m., we were getting worried. Mutt decided to go look for them, and when he opened the door, Dad fell through to the living room floor from outside.
Dad's truck stalled a mile up the gravel road. He was frost bitten from walking in the blinding, blowing snow and the dark.
Mutt and I went to go get Mom and sure enough a mile from Mutt's house she sat in Dad's 1972 Ford pickup truck.
We got into Mutt's Chevy, and he worked to maneuver around Dad's stalled vehicle, and doing so, he got stuck in a snow drift between Dad's truck and the barb wire fence.
Mutt had to make the same walk Dad made just a while before, and Mom and I sat in that truck with the heat going and the truck running.
Mom was the most hot-natured person I ever met. She slept with a window open in the dead of winter, and had done so earlier that very week.
But that night she was cold.
We waited for hours, but she never stopped talking to her son. She never made me believe she was scared or worried that we would get out of there. She never said she was scared for Dad or Mutt, that they wouldn't make it to find help.
We just sat and talked. I honestly don't remember what we talked about, but I do remember never being frightened that we wouldn't survive.
Eventually, another neighbor brought a tractor to come pull us out and take Dad's truck home.
From that day forward, when we remembered that night, it was always referred to as "the night we almost froze to death."
That tells me she was at least thinking about how bad things could have been.
Again, she never talked about it in the moment.
It's not just the snow and brutally cold temperatures that have me thinking about that frightful night in January 1984.
I'm writing this on Monday night, mom's 83rd birthday. March 5 is the 20th anniversary of Mom's passing to cancer.
It just seemed like a day to reflect on a wonderful woman who refused to let what was a very brutally cold night into one of the worst memories of my life.
But I still hate snow.