(Photo provided)

Until the emergence of science and the scientific method, a fact was what the authorities said it was.

If the chief Aztec said the best way to guarantee a corn surplus was to eviscerate a couple hundred slaves, so be it.

If medieval kings had all the wealth and power, it was because, according to divine right, they deserved it, since they were directly descended from God. Meanwhile, the Great Unwarshed were dirt poor (when they could afford dirt) because they deserved it, having been descended from nothing but other GUs.

Bubonic plague? What, according to the experts of the day, was its cause? Cats. What else?

But all that changed with the Enlightenment and the rise of scientific method and knowledge.

We now know killing slaves has no effect on crops, though in all fairness to the Aztecs, it was one helluva spectacle to people deprived of MMA.

Not only do we know royals are not descended from On High, but that a lot of them were moronic inbreeds besides.

And it had to be bad news for all ailurophobes to find out the plague was caused by animals invisible to the eye, not by cats – black or otherwise.

So now everyone believes in only fact-based research, right?

Of course not.

Cults, counterfeit clergy and con men of every size, shape and hustle are still in flower. The only thing they have in common is never lacking suckers … or second homes.

It seems humans have to believe in some authority or other. This is especially apparent with the new king – the Weather Channel.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not knocking the Weather Channel. I can understand why people love to watch it. Monsoons in Malaysia? Typhoons in Taipei? Mudslides in Mongolia? My alliterative wizardry aside, who could resist watching such horrors? Frankly, I think watching Mother Nature kick the snot out of us poor mortals is not only heady fare, but it’s a lot better than 90 percent of the dreck on T.V. At least it’s real — as opposed to reality shows.

So I understand folks enjoying the Weather Channel. What I don’t understand is believing in it. But believe in it people do, every bit as much as Oedipus believed the oracle and Hamlet believed the ghost. And this was apparent with this week’s blizzard.

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The prediction

The Weather Channel announced the forthcoming blizzard, and the crowd went wild. Everyone I know started stashing all the essentials — canned foods, dried fruit, candles, Red Bull, Cheetos, smelling salts, tourniquets and, of course, toilet paper by the 24 pack.

Me, I didn’t do squat.

Oh sure, first things first — I checked the cat and dog food larder. Then I made sure I had enough bread, cheese, mayo, mustard and mysteries to feed both belly and brain. And that was about it.

So why, when my fellow citizens were so concerned, was I so blasé about The Blizzard of the Century?

Simple: the same reason I’m even more blasé about the Crime of the Century, The Fight of the Century, and the Football Game of the Century: Namely we have at least one very six years or so. Besides, checking out the fabulous satellite weather map, I could see we were on the borders of the storm. The peeps that were gonna get seriously barraged were the denizens of Gotham, bless their little hearts (As it turned out, that prediction wasn’t spot on, and so much for meteorologist infallibility).

Ultimately, blizzards are like witches, a la “Wizard of Oz.” There are bad ones … and there are good ones. I was hoping we’d get a good one, and Lordy be, we did.

This is not to say I paid no dues. I spent all day and most of the evening shoveling. And when I wasn’t shoveling, I was taking a 10-minute break before I started shoveling again.

It was unreal. The snow was falling at such a rate that it took me around 45 minutes to shovel my driveway and walkway, and when I finished, so much snow had fallen I had to start over again. But if I didn’t shovel, or if I took too long a break, I was going to get so far behind that car, driveway, and probably me would be buried till spring. I didn’t keep a strict account of my shoveling time, but I know it wasn’t less than seven hours.

Finally, at around 9:30 I quit. I wasn’t completely wiped out, but I was tired, so tired that I just said to myself if the snow kept up at the rate it had been and I found myself facing another 3 feet of the white stuff in the driveway, so be it.

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The reality

As luck would have it, the snowfall did not continue at its previous rate, and on Wednesday morn when I went forth, shovel in hand, it was only a matter of an hour or so before all the night’s snowfall had been cleared off.

Thus, as far as I’m concerned, when it comes to blizzards, this was a good one.

First, the power stayed on, so I had lights, heat, and grilled cheese sandwiches.

Second, while the temp never got above the low teens, there was no wind, which made it pretty easy to deal with.

Third, the snow itself was light, white and fluffy — perfect Currier and Ives flakes, not the wet, gloopy stuff that’s as hard to shovel as mud. While I spent hours shoveling, it was repetitive rather than strenuous, so while I was tired at night, I wasn’t sore or achy or in any real discomfort.

Finally, there was my feeling of triumph. I got through that entire ordeal without calling for either reinforcements or the rescue squad. I didn’t slip a disk or blow out a coronary artery. I didn’t end up in the ER or the morgue.

And reconsidering all those things, I guess I’d say it wasn’t a good blizzard — it was a great one.