The local weather people are talking about snow tonight. In my part of the country, snow is a very emotionally charged word. People get gleefully excited about the possibility of snow or the idea of vacationing in snowy places. Such a simple thing—frozen precipitation—that my own feelings toward it give me pause.
Growing up, I moved around a great deal. I spent most of my early years in Kentucky where winters could be mild enough to go without jackets much of the time. Other years, our winters would bring ice storms that seemed to cripple us. Snow, however, was a rarity. Just rare enough to not really be a part of childhood memory.
A few of those early years, I lived in northeast Ohio. This is where my feelings about snow were solidified. Snow was an annual part of life. You planned on it and adjusted your routine according to how much of the white stuff stood between you and the end of the sidewalk, how much stood between your car and the end of the driveway, how much of the stuff stood between you and the canceling of school or the big plans you had for Saturday.
Granted, I took advantage of the situation as best as a young boy could. I would trudge over to Barber’s Hill for sledding or snowball fights or whatever else we could invent on a crisp winter day. But even in the midst of the fun, there seemed to be a nagging feeling of hypocrisy down inside of me. You see, I don’t like snow. I don’t like spending more time bundling up than “enjoying” the time outside. I don’t like it when icy slush gets between you and your clothes. I don’t like the cold air. I don’t like trudging through snow-covered sidewalks and parking lots. I don’t like pulling my car out of snow banks. I just generally don’t like all the stuff that comes along with snow. The feelings of discomfort with winter’s white blanket begin to make their way to the front of my consciousness as a kid. Until they all came to a head one winter morning.
I was standing outside my house waiting for the bus one cold, snowy Ohio morning. A blizzard was blowing outside, as I remember it. Together the kids from the neighborhood and I waited as the cold and snow permeated deep into my bones. The cold chilled my skin and the snow seemed to taunt my feelings of disdain toward it. There was nothing I could do about either. Everyone was gone to work and I couldn’t get back in the house. I grumbled against the wind and snow and cold.
After what seemed like another ice age, another bus driver saw us still standing on the street. It turned out that our bus had succumbed to the snow and cold and was stranded. I was astonished. Our bus froze in the cold and I was still going to school. I waited outside in weather unfit for humans or machines and nobody seemed to be fazed.
It was right then and there that I decided that I was done with snow. To the fullest extent possible, I was going to separate myself from the white stuff. It didn’t really care too much about me and I was not going to hide my disdain for it any longer.
Circumstances took me back to Kentucky that following winter. I was glad to be back in the land where snow is a rarity. However, there was the nagging sense that it was lurking around the corner all the while. Like a bully waiting to strike again, snow seemed to be waiting to get the upper hand again.
One day I heard a friend discussing a business trip he’d taken to the Gulf Coast one winter. He recounted the “snow event” during his trip. It seems that the sky spit snow one day and the whole coast seemed to stop to watch the sky. It was not enough to stick, yet the people seemed to be overjoyed. He too had grown up in a snow-plagued area and laughed the people’s awestruck expressions at the novelty falling from the sky.
I grew excited about this new and wonderful land. I wanted to live in a place where snow was such a novelty. If it was that big of a deal there, then it was the place for me. It seemed only logical that I would live in such paradise. When the opportunity came for my move to the Gulf Coast, I was thrilled to be moving to a land free from frozen precipitation.
That was nearly 20 years ago. I have, for the most part, successfully avoided the snow bully since then. Our encounters have been few and far between and short-lived at that.
Our six-year-old daughter and eight-year-old son often remind me that they haven’t seen (or don’t remember seeing) snow. They do so in the spirit of a plea to present them to snow. I’m hesitant to introduce my children to one of my childhood bullies.
This morning, the local weather people are calling for a chance of snow accumulation about an hour north of here overnight. We might see some frozen stuff even falling from the sky here. My wife and children are excited about the idea. The local Christmas parade is tonight and the church Christmas Carnival is tomorrow. To them, a seemingly perfect arrangement is in the mix. All over the community, I catch snippets of conversations about how excited everyone is about the chance for snow. People like to talk about the rare and novel. Something deep inside of me cringes. Snow. Here. That’s not supposed to happen. Then I remember: people get excited about the rare chance of snow. That’s one of the logical things about living here. So maybe watching them get so excited over so little is a good thing. Perhaps I can endure this punch of snow, to see the delight of my wife and children.
One day I’ll take my wife and kids to see “real” snow. The look on their faces will be wonderful as they romp and laugh in frozen fun. I’ll wave to them through the window —from inside the lodge, next to the fire, with a cup of hot coffee in my hand. . I’ll be the one inside in a t-shirt and shorts and dreaming of someplace tropical.
As I catch the rest of this week’s forecast I get that same warm feeling. A warm front is on the way and I’ll being wearing shorts and a t-shirt next weekend. This is Dixie's Sunny Shore after all. Seems only logical to embrace it—the common and the quirky.
