Five inches of snow this morning freed the young ones from school, a circumstance that soon found the back yard a tangled cross-hatch of snowy paths beaten out by those same children while making snowmen—a Daddy snowman (Dad is on the short side) and a toddler beside him, a tiny stick-armed figure sagging to the right. A blue snow shovel, purpose unknown, sits abandoned in the middle of the yard. After gulping cups of hot chocolate, a lenience in this season of Lent permitted by their parents for this rare occasion, the children crossed the plowed road and are now crashing around the neighborhood with their friends. From the youngest to the oldest, they will, I predict, collapse into bed tonight and sleep the sleep of Hypnos.
Southerners, at least some of us, view snow with radically different eyes than our Northern kin. For Northern folks, snow is nothing special, a trial during a blizzard, true, but a meteorological given for the rest of the winter. They poke fun at Southerners, who, when faced with an inch or two of the white stuff, race to the store for milk, bread, beer, and other necessities. When a mild snow shower closes our Southern public schools, Northern transplants brag of how their schools stay open even when the howling winds dump truckloads of snow in the streets, failing to consider that the monies spent on the equipment to gain purchase of their streets and roads would be money wasted in the South.
What these sons and daughters of Massachusetts, Minnesota, and New York also fail to understand is the mystic charm of a Southern snow, that sleight of hand wrought by Mother Nature that overnight turns a brown, bare landscape into a resplendent ivory palace. The snow falls, and by dawn the scuffed grass and muddy patches of the yard are bedecked in garments as white as a newborn’s baptismal gown; the drifts and blowing snow turn the meanest barn into an alabaster castle worthy of Lancelot and Guinevere; the winter-shabby flower beds become bowls overflowing with the whitest of sugars.
When we are children, snow for many of us in the South means an abrupt and wonderful change in the routine of our days. Our schools close, and many businesses open late or shut down altogether, allowing parents to spend time at home. Because snow is so rare here, Southern kids don’t sport fancy ski jackets and snow boots. Instead, they dress like Dickensian ragamuffins in thrown-together outfits of coats, jeans, and made-shift boots when they plunge outside into a world of cold and wet that brings roses to their cheeks and magic to their neighborhoods. They break out sleds used two or three times each winter; they fight snowball battles; if there is a stiff wind, they pretend to be Arctic explorers. When after an hour or so they return dripping wet and shivering to their homes, hot chocolate awaits them on the stove, a moment of lusty joy enhanced, in some cases, by the brightly burning logs of a fireplace. If they are truly blessed, Mama goes outside, fills a pot with fresh snow, adds some vanilla, evaporated milk, and sugar, and serves up a special treat of snow cream.
For Southern adults—again I am addressing those who, like me, relish the snow—the winter surprise brings different pleasures. Perhaps as a vestige of canceled school, we take a break from our usual work and duties, and happily permit the snow to serve as an excuse for a mini-vacation, an escape from the exigencies of our duties and routine. We take naps; we loll around the house, coffee in hand, watching the falling snow; we cook up a special chili or soup; we sit and read a book, listening to the wind and watching the sweep of flakes through the bare trees. Those of us with four-wheel drives invent excuses to head for the grocery store, taking pride in smashing through the drifts and maneuvering on the icy roads while the rest of the townspeople remain bound to their houses.
In the South the falling snow quiets our eternally busy earth. It slows us, turns us away from the daily minutiae that like piranha feed on us, and steers us toward higher thoughts, forgotten dreams, visions lost in the ruckus and noise of the world. The snow falls and covers the streets and the yards, the rooftops and evergreens, and that same blanket covers us as well, offering gifts of respite and sustenance, the opportunity to pause, to meditate, to remember who we are, to dream our dreams.
What these sons and daughters of Massachusetts, Minnesota, and New York also fail to understand is the mystic charm of a Southern snow, that sleight of hand wrought by Mother Nature that overnight turns a brown, bare landscape into a resplendent ivory palace. The snow falls, and by dawn the scuffed grass and muddy patches of the yard are bedecked in garments as white as a newborn’s baptismal gown; the drifts and blowing snow turn the meanest barn into an alabaster castle worthy of Lancelot and Guinevere; the winter-shabby flower beds become bowls overflowing with the whitest of sugars.
When we are children, snow for many of us in the South means an abrupt and wonderful change in the routine of our days. Our schools close, and many businesses open late or shut down altogether, allowing parents to spend time at home. Because snow is so rare here, Southern kids don’t sport fancy ski jackets and snow boots. Instead, they dress like Dickensian ragamuffins in thrown-together outfits of coats, jeans, and made-shift boots when they plunge outside into a world of cold and wet that brings roses to their cheeks and magic to their neighborhoods. They break out sleds used two or three times each winter; they fight snowball battles; if there is a stiff wind, they pretend to be Arctic explorers. When after an hour or so they return dripping wet and shivering to their homes, hot chocolate awaits them on the stove, a moment of lusty joy enhanced, in some cases, by the brightly burning logs of a fireplace. If they are truly blessed, Mama goes outside, fills a pot with fresh snow, adds some vanilla, evaporated milk, and sugar, and serves up a special treat of snow cream.
For Southern adults—again I am addressing those who, like me, relish the snow—the winter surprise brings different pleasures. Perhaps as a vestige of canceled school, we take a break from our usual work and duties, and happily permit the snow to serve as an excuse for a mini-vacation, an escape from the exigencies of our duties and routine. We take naps; we loll around the house, coffee in hand, watching the falling snow; we cook up a special chili or soup; we sit and read a book, listening to the wind and watching the sweep of flakes through the bare trees. Those of us with four-wheel drives invent excuses to head for the grocery store, taking pride in smashing through the drifts and maneuvering on the icy roads while the rest of the townspeople remain bound to their houses.
In the South the falling snow quiets our eternally busy earth. It slows us, turns us away from the daily minutiae that like piranha feed on us, and steers us toward higher thoughts, forgotten dreams, visions lost in the ruckus and noise of the world. The snow falls and covers the streets and the yards, the rooftops and evergreens, and that same blanket covers us as well, offering gifts of respite and sustenance, the opportunity to pause, to meditate, to remember who we are, to dream our dreams.