Flakes are floating past the windows up here on the hill. It’s nothing spectacular, but it occurs infrequently enough that it calls to mind earlier days of snowfall.
My earliest memories of snow were in Tennessee in the 1950′s, and up on another perfect hill out on Granny White Pike. Strangely sadistic boots with metal straps that connected in such a manner as to cut off all circulation to my feet, which of course, is exactly what you want in snow: dealing with tiny metal parts and enjoying the lack of blood-flow to your feet.
We had a couple of sleds, and we rode those as if they were fun…and safe, which they were not. Living on the side of a hill (between Eddy Arnold and the meanest woman who ever breathed my oxygen), we had a diminutive sled track in the back yard, that while short, was quite steep, and ramped the mph up to at least 7 or 8. The front yard seemed like a vast tundra of sled heaven full of goodness and joy, but alas, while large and plentiful, lacked the required angle of descent, and like the awful greens at Legends Country Club in Stephenville, would register a 2.7 on the Stimpmeter. It also had some big trees, so that was bad.
I distinctly remember a story in Hooper family lore of my brother Larry sledding down the hill in the backyard directly into the pole that supported the overhang for the back porch, knocking said pole to the ground, much to the delight of his younger brother. That would be me. The overhang stood firm. My guess is that the wise man built that house upon the rock.
There were also snowy days at the cousins’ back yard building snow forts…not as much fun. It seems that while I would labor ever-so-poorly at building the fort, the older siblings and cousins would pound me with snowballs for the duration of construction.
Fast forward to college in Abilene, well-known for the bounty of snowfall in West Texas. I was informed by my friends born north of the Mason-Dixon line upon the first snowfall that no one, absolutely no one, born in Texas knows how to drive in snow. No one. Not one. I learned to drive in Florida, so I kept quiet. My girlfriend (yes, you may pity her) was from Odessa, Texas, and was not proficient at winter driving. She really wasn’t all that proficient at summer driving, either. That was not the reason we broke up. We broke up not only because I was an idiot (still am), but because she was not the girl I could not live without.
But I digress…
My piano accompanist was from New York. She was a great accompanist, and a perfectly safe driver. We were pretty good friends, and I rode with her whenever possible. I have no idea where she is these days.
Ten years after, my sons were sometimes found scrounging the band hall for old bass drums heads. These Brobdingnagian discs of Kevlar were great for sliding down Charlotte Hill (the street in front of our house), provided the layer of ice was sufficient to keep a few millimeters between the asphalt and their Oshkosh-B-Goshes.
We don’t really have much snow in these here parts–we rather prefer our annual cascade of ice (see also, “Jerry Jones’ Greatest Super Bowl Fear”). So, you Yankee-boys who mock us for our driving skills had best give it a whirl on 1/4″ of God-fearing Texas ice before you get too smug while using all of our Texas-bred heating oil that Rick Perry created.
It just stopped snowing outside.
Spring is officially here.
…………
It started snowing again. Not so fast there, Mr. Spring.
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