BY MAGGIE BEAMGUARD || Insider Editor
I try to steer away from controversial topics in these slice-of-life columns, but I’m ready to declare a position. I love snow.
What I mean is, I LOVE snow. Many of you, my neighbors, have come to this mild clime to escape the frozen stuff. You’ve come from places like Maine. And Pennsylvania. And Buffalo, which got over six feet of it the weekend before Thanksgiving.
As a Southerner who has never picked up a snow shovel, it’s an easy stance to take. I don’t know what it’s like to drive with chains or to have to dig out my car to get to work. I don’t know the tricks for layering. I haven’t had to convince my dog to go “hurry” in a blanket of white taller than her. My heaviest outerwear is a fleece, three-season jacket.
So I get it. I understand how you snowbirds might be inclined to bah-humbug a forecast calling for a little Jack Frost.
The only snows I’ve known are ones that shut everything down for a few days, tops. They are the perfect excuse for snuggling up with hot cocoa and doing a puzzle. You can stop hustling for a spell and stare out a window as fluffy flakes float down.
Step outside and hear the satisfying crunch under your feet, smell the pure air, feel the cold that has finally chased off the mosquitos and humidity. Listen for that quiet. Ah, snow.
The rare treat of snow in the pines voids any inconvenience it creates. At least in my opinion.
Southern snows don’t stick around long. One time, my little girls were so excited that weather forecasters were calling for snow at our home in Charleston, SC that they ran outside without coats or scarves during the 10 minutes of snowfall the radar said was coming. Dropping down in the walkway, they waved their arms and swung their legs. When they stood up, they revealed their precious brick angels. Oh what fun.
The best southern snow I ever experienced happened when I was an eighth grader. My hometown had been devastated by Hurricane Hugo in September of 1989. For months, all you could hear were chainsaws. Debris piles eight feet tall and 10 feet wide lined the streets of my neighborhood. Homes were in shambles. Pine trees had been snapped like toothpicks.
But on Dec. 23 that year, as my mother and I drove home from a day of Christmas shopping, the frozen precipitation started to fall. By the time it was over, all the ugliness we’d been living with was hidden under eight inches of beautiful, white powder.
It was a sight for sore eyes.
Since then, snow has always been, for me, a respite. A peace.
Southern snows don’t compare with northern ones, and I’m sure that’s why I like them so much.
As we turn the calendar to January, I always feel a bit of a let down after the joy of the holidays. As far as I’m concerned, January doesn’t have a lot going for it. Other than the potential for a snow day. A respite. A peace.
So, I’m setting a New Year’s intention rather than a resolution. And this is it: Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!
Contact Maggie Beamguard at maggie@thepilot.com.
