Right before the last snowstorm, I went to the store to see if all the unprepared, panicky newcomers had bought up all the bread, milk and toilet paper. They had, which was annoying because I needed to stock up on bread, milk and toilet paper for the storm.
The annoyance — or, most of it, anyway — dissipated as I considered what our forebears went through in the early days of the state.
Now: If we are down to 10 rolls of toilet paper, I have to make a trip to the store.
Then: If they ran out of newspapers and Sears catalog pages, they had to start whittling the kernels off the corn cobs.
Now: It's that I will be so hungry after walking along behind the snowblower for 10 minutes that I will want to make a massive sandwich with meats, cheeses and fresh vegetables grown half a continent away but still crisp and delicious. Better add bread to the shopping list. The store had better have the organic rye or I'll have to stop at the specialty store, but that's a hassle because that place doesn't accept payments from a phone — you actually have to stick the card in the machine, like Caveman Ogg trading a pretty shell for a pointed stick.
Then: They made sure that they had enough hardtack beef and pickled beets to last until the thaw. But first, they had to grind the wheat to make flour. The work kept them warm, but the sweat froze so quickly it made a cracking noise as their limbs moved.
Now: Oh, we need milk, the kids might want hot chocolate. Better add a gallon or two to the list, along with some orange juice — no pulp! I hate pulp, it's like someone put a sponge in a blender.
Then: They hiked out into the deep snow to find the cows. When they finally got three of them back to the barn, they went out to seek the fourth. The poor creature was dead.