The storm of death redux again

This is about the first excuse of the winter for the official mommydotguv weather forecasters to predict death and disaster. So far, I am amazed at the rhetorical restraint the NWS is showing. Reduced to a "takeaway" (what an odious word), the weather guys and gals  seem to be advising me that I have a reasonable chance  of surviving the next 72 hours. Ordinarily their red headlines make me wonder if my will needs changing.

This makes me feel good but also like a citified wuss. I don't really need to do much. Keep a few splits of oak handy to the fireplace.  Kick New Dog Libby out of the soft chair closest to said fireplace. Decide whether to go with chili, spaghetti sauce, or  barbecue pork loin in the crock pot.  Move the more dependable truck out into a clear area of the yard. (The truck is insured but the camper isn't, so the fall of an ice-laden oak branch thereon would be financially inconvenient.)

A couple-three hundred miles west of me, where the storm is worse,  lives a a better man. This guy -- an obvious  survivalist  --  got ready by positioning  the 4x4  pickup,  prepping his team of horses, getting his cows in a cuddly place, and -- I swear it's true --  hoping his shoulder pain lets up enough so he can go riding his colt through the wintry Armageddon. Ride 'em, Cowboy.

(sigh) Comparatively, Jinglebob makes me feel like I should be wearing white bucks,  lime green slacks, a pink silk shirt, and a yellow ascot, standing around a country club bar,  bitching about the servant problem.