After a series of near misses, snow finally arrived in force. Nothing like Boston or the New England coast, but enough. And then a warm day to melt it all. It reminds me of the blizzard of ’79, which hit at the same time of year. Coming out from an Alvin Ailey dance concert that Sunday, we found a snowstorm under way. We drove slowly along streets already clogged with slippery clots of snow. Cold winds, tiny flakes descending in dense waves. All afternoon, all night. You could hear the wind nipping at the eaves in the top floor bedrooms of the four-story townhouse. Though the next day, Presidents’ Day, remained cold, by Tuesday, we walked around the neighborhoods in short sleeves as the temperature soared to something close to 70 degrees F. Now, plowed piles slowly ooze into streamlets down the streets while a constant percussion of melting drops tap out the day.