Footprints in the snow ...
It is Wednesday morning and the only sour note on a patio of virgin white – three inches of it – are my footprints from the house out to my barn.
Snow . . .
I’m pretty good at telling you about my favorite snow, like a couple of inches here today, gone tomorrow. Which is what James Spann, chief meteorologist for 33/40, had told us to expect.
A dusting . . .
And that’s the way it looked along about 10 or so Tuesday morning. It began as a gentle falling, even a bit hard to see in the beginning. And then, over the next six hours or so it turned into a once-in-a-decade thing we love in the beginning, dislike intensely two days later, and pray for deliverance on day three.
The snow has stopped, but temperatures falling into the teens will turn my street into a sheet of ice. At this writing, no less than a half-dozen automobiles have found the ditches from where I live to the top of the hill . . . two blocks.
This one is no dusting . . .
This is no fun, not if you are old enough for creaking joints and too old to get in snowball fights.
There’s something else about this snow/ice storm.
In the occasional “dustings” we get every two or three years or so, I take the old computer in hand and wax nostalgic on snows in my past. I have all sorts of what I think are funny lines that tickle me if not the reader.
Cutesy . . .
Not this time. For one thing, this one is personal in a stomach-knotting sense.
Son-and-heir calls late Tuesday. He is on U. S. 431 in Alexandria Valley. His goal is to make it to Winn-Dixie in Saks, park his truck, and hike two miles over hills to his house.
Grandson number one is at work in Birmingham. He lives near McCalla. The roads there are already impassable. TV shows bumper-to-bumper traffic on U. S. 280 South. Finally, he does make it home.
His wife, who also works in Birmingham, does not. She spends the night at work, finally makes it home the next day.
Grandson number three is in college at the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa. He’s somewhere, nobody seems sure. But he finally shows up at home.
Grandson number two?
He and his bride are on a cruise ship somewhere way south of the Florida Keys. Have not had a sympathy card and he is no longer in my will.
That’s the good stuff, the personal part.
The rest of the dusting . . .
The television is two things, instant news and a horror show.
In the beginning, I start out with 33/40. Then I click over to Fox on Channel Six. Before long, I am with Fox all the way. Channel Six, with a crew of which I can name just one (Janet, but not her last name) flat out waxes 33/40.
The rest of the story . . .
It is now Wednesday afternoon and Fox News tells me (and shows me) hundreds of people still in their cars, most have been there 24-30 hours. That’s just Birmingham, doesn’t include the rest of the state, nor Mississippi nor Georgia nor . . .
One measuring stick of what hit us when Mr. Spann wasn’t looking:
-- The Anniston Star did not make it this morning. Wednesday.
-- The postman did not run.
-- The garbage truck did not run.
It’s a disaster.
It’s not funny.
And I can’t think of one single “cutesy” line to leave you with other than it is now Friday and I’m typing this with gloves on my icicles . . . OK, my fingers.
George Smith may be reached at 256-239-5286 or e-mail: firstname.lastname@example.org