Those of us living here in Memphis, the brutiful land in the world, woke on Sunday morning to find something of a Winter Wonderland. A dusting of snow had fallen, leaving an ivory frosting on everything outside. It was pretty, adding an air of magic to the frosty air, giving Valentine’s Day a bit of a sparkle from Mother Nature.
It was also a horrible harbinger of what was to come, but we’ll get to that in a second.
There was a time in my life where I would have done anything to be able to play in the snow. Growing up in Atlanta, snow was mostly an idea, an unnatural natural phenomenon that would blow through quickly once every two or three years. We would be lucky to have an inch of snow, just enough to make a handful of snowballs or dig a plastic sled that didn’t really work out from the back of the garage.
I really only recall one “big” snowstorm, which in retrospect was probably about 4 inches of snow. It was enough to shut down school for a few days, and I linked up with some kids from the neighborhood and spent a day playing outside. In between stints in the snow, we would duck into one of our homes to warm up and dry off, then head back out.
Other than that lone day, I don’t recall many fun snow days as a kid. The worst, of course, was when school would be canceled due to ice. It meant no school, which was a W, but at the same time there was no actual snow, so we couldn’t play in the snow or build snowmen.
Then I moved to New York City, and suddenly I was surrounded by snow, so much snow, for at least six months of each year. And unlike back in the South, in New York snow wasn’t really a game changer, it was just more of an inconvenience. Life went on, snow or no snow. Subways could still run, power and phone lines were underground, so for the most part, the city would keep right on keeping on. A foot of snow? Gotcha, see you at work tomorrow!
It was in New York City that I learned to recognize the sounds of snow. It would begin with the quiet that would set in as the snow first started to fall. In a city constantly choked by traffic, it was odd to not hear cars and buses fighting through congestion. Then, as it got dark and the city started to fall asleep, you’d hear the scraping of metal on cement, as garbage trucks were fitted with snow scrapers, and they started shoving the snow into piles alongside the road.
The first time it snowed each winter, it was novel, fun. We would wait for it to settle, then go out and play in the snow, marveling at how lovely everything looked caked in white. Twenty four hours later, the snow had been mostly shoved aside, from in front of buildings and streets, piled into makeshift obstacles at every street crossing. Pedestrians would line up to walk through the gaps in the ice, and after a few days, those piles of ice would turn gray, covered by New York’s finest grime.
Life would proceed this way for months at a time. Once it was finally warm enough to melt the ice, gigantic puddles—the same color as the street!—would accumulate around each crosswalk, making the harrowing crossing more harrowing.
The most crucial thing I learned w/r/t dealing with the snow was the importance of owning a great pair of shoes. I’ve had the same pair of waterproof outdoor boots now for about ten years. They keep my feet dry and provide good traction, which is really all I can ask when the ground is covered with water, in all its various forms.
I dug those shoes back out this weekend, when Memphis was faced with the threat of abundant snow. Five days later, I’m still wearing those shoes, which have kept my feet dry despite several days of messing around outdoors. And the way it’s looking, with temps staying below freezing for the next few days, I’ll be keeping these shoes on tight for the time being.
In New York, I lived in an apartment building, and our super and his staff took care of the snow when it started falling. The other day I noticed my neighbor out shoveling the walk to his home, and it made me realize I should probably be doing the same at my home. So I’ve been shoveling, and making sure the water faucets are dripping, and teaching my son how to not track snow into the house. Since the snow started, we’ve spent a total of about two hours playing in the snow. I’ve spent approximately double that amount of time trying to keep my house warm, which wasn’t apparently built to handle temps that stay this cold for this long.
(To be fair, part of that was my own doing. After months of planning, contractors finally started our kitchen renovation late last week. They got everything cleared out of the kitchen—the microwave, the stove, dishwasher, cabinets, counters—just before the snow came. They also pulled down some drywall and insulation. So, it’s cold.)
Today my son and I went out to sled on the banks of the Mississippi, which was a lot of fun! But after 15 minutes, my son was in tears, saying he had snow in places it didn’t belong, and we had to hustle back home and stand in front of the fireplace to warm up. Was it fun to be outside in the snow for a while? Sure. Was I ready to sit on my deck and fire up my grill? Also, yes. But we’ve still got the snow to deal with. And we will for a while, I’m guessing.
I think everyone can agree that there’s something aesthetically pleasing about snow, the way it gives you a fresh perspective on a landscape you’ve looked at a thousand times before. Just don’t forget that that beauty comes with a price.