It’s hard to understand how one’s mood is so affected by the weather. The first day of last week’s snow, we were thrilled with its beauty. The next day we were excited and happy to get out into the snow and sled, ski, and build snowmen. The next day the children were excited to be out of school and slept in, but soon had no interest in snow, and wondered when you could take them to meet their friends at the mall. The next few days of snow days and delayed openings caused an epidemic of cabin fever, panic, and doldrums.
I don’t think God sent snow or asked Mother Nature to send snow to the south the last few weeks just to remind us all who live south of the Mason-Dixon line what our Yankee cousins live through every year. But I do believe that the occasional winter storm teaches us Southerners a few good lessons.
First, it teaches us the profound, almost spiritual importance of the “Holy Trinity of Winter Survival”: milk, bread, and eggs—and that most sacred of non-perishables: toilet paper. To the uninitiated, the Trinity looks like the ingredients for French toast. To a Southerner, it is a ritualistic sacrifice to the gods of a potential “dusting.” We may not have a snow shovel or a pair of tire chains within a three-state radius, but if we are going to be trapped in our driveways for forty-eight hours, we will have enough perishables to open a medium-sized cafe. And let’s not forget the most vital step of the pre-storm pilgrimage: the frantic dash to the liquor store to ensure our “medical supplies” are stocked before the dreaded wintry mix settles in.
Secondly, it humbles our legendary Southern hospitality. By day four of the “Snowpocalypse,” that famous charm begins to wear as thin as the tread on a half-ton pick-up’s tires. We realize that while we love our neighbors, we don’t necessarily love them enough to watch their children—who are currently vibrating with a mix of boredom and high-fructose corn syrup—while the only thing on TV is a marathon of soap operas and the internet is down. At that point, “Bless your heart” is no longer a greeting; it’s a battle cry.
Finally, and perhaps most importantly, these storms remind us of our greatest regional talent: the ability to turn a half-inch of slush into a state-wide emergency. We watch the local news anchors don heavy-duty parkas—usually reserved for meat locker reporting—as they stand beside a dusting of frost and warn us of “impending doom.” They scan the horizon with the intensity of a search-and-rescue team, desperately hoping to find a single car that has slid three inches off the asphalt or a lonely tree limb that has dared to fall across a backroad. If they find a patch of ice, they poke it with a microphone like they’ve discovered a dormant volcano.
In the end, the snow doesn’t come to punish us. It comes to remind us that we aren’t built for the tundra; we are built for sweet tea and porches. It teaches us that the only thing more dangerous than a patch of black ice is a Southerner who has not been to a grocery store in a week or is forced to spend a fifth consecutive day explaining to their children that, no, the streets are still not “plowed” (because the county’s one plow is currently stuck in a ditch), and no, I am not driving you to the mall in a Honda Civic that handles like a bar of soap in a bathtub.
So, as the sun finally peeks out and turns our “winter wonderland” into a muddy mess, we emerge from our homes like survivors of a long-lost civilization—pajama-clad, slightly over-caffeinated, and with enough supplies to feed a small army until the azaleas bloom.
Loved this! Great work, Webb!
Thanks so much! Love. Webb.
Wonderful writing! Dent and I miss you two!
Thank you so much. Suzy and I really hope we can come “home” soon for a long visit and catch up with friends. Please give Dent my best and Suzy send her love. Webb.