It’s all my fault.

I have caused this historic storm after such a nice, pleasant winter. When I went grocery shopping on Sunday, it was like a scene out of the apocalypse.

Your house is buried. Your car is buried. It’s all my fault.

For 20 years or more, I would flee Maine for Florida and baseball to keep body and soul attached. I even had season tickets for Red Sox spring training. It was my method of avoiding weekends like this.

Marky Mark called from Florida last week. He reminded me that when the Super Bowl ends, it’s time to pack a bag and flee. Mark is a west Warren lad who used to plow driveways, so he is intimately aware of the Maine winter.

“Are you coming down?” he asked.

Here is where I made my mistake. I said the winter was unusually mild and had not bothered me a bit. True, I carried more wood for the stove than ever before, but it was a minor problem. “The winter isn’t bad,” I said, stupidly.

I don’t know your stance on religion. I don’t even know mine. But I believe there are gods, much like the legends of Mount Olympus who keep their eyes on our miserable souls. If you are lucky, they leave you alone. But when you say “The winter isn’t bad,” I believe the weather gods take notice.

It’s like when you roll out of bed in the morning and the aches in every joint are minimal and you say “I feel good today.” I believe that will set off alarm bells and the arthritis god will sit up and show you what’s what.

The point is to keep your mouth shut and get along with what you can. I forgot.

On Sunday, I was glued to the Weather Channel and their prophesies of doom. I am smart enough to know that the Weather Channel exaggerates each and every hurricane and snowstorm to increase viewership. But still.

They basically said that Maine is screwed and will face a “meteorological bomb” of a snowstorm with a foot or two of snow and wind gusts up to 70 miles an hour. I would say that this is gross hysteria, but I am afraid the gods might be watching or listening … again

But still.

More and more, my body expects that trip to Florida. But the lousy motels I used to stay in for $45 a night are now $170. The same motel. All those damned World Series wins by the Sox have brought those fair weather friends to Fort Myers. I almost liked it better when the Sox were perennial losers for 80 years or more. Almost.

I noticed the other day that it was 23 years ago when basketball legend Michael Jordan actually played spring training baseball in Fort Myers. We were staying at the Royal Palm Motel for, I think, $10 a head per night and got press passes to watch Jordan play. He was terrible.

We loved the Palm because it was two blocks from the baseball park. We could walk. When the regulars sat and the third string took over in the blazing sun, we would adjourn to the Palm for cocktails by the smallest pool in Florida. Everyone around the pool was a Red Sox fan. Naturally.

That all ended when I took Blue Eyes along. She took one look at the 456 flies in the overhead light and started crying. Women. We had to move to the swanky Holiday Inn by the river which cost something like $9 more a day.

The Royal Palm has since been flattened for a parking lot.

I can’t afford the hotels and motels that have sprung up around the new ball park. Not until I win the lottery.

I will stay home for one of the few times since 1993 and curse the snow. I will spend this weekend, like you, trapped in my house. It looks like it will snow all week.

It’s all my fault. I’m sorry.

Emmet Meara lives in Camden in blissful retirement after working as a reporter for the Bangor Daily News in Rockland for 30 years.