Snow

A little bit of snow goes a long way here in Middle Tennessee. My friends back home in Western New York laugh when I tell them the whole state comes to a grinding halt when we have 3 inches of snow, but then, I think the whole of Tennessee has only has one snow plow, and it never shows up here.

The problem here (besides the no-show snowplow) is that the terrain in much of the eastern part of the state, and even here in Middle Tennessee, is steep and treacherous, so even when the main highways are marginally passable, the outlying roads are impossible. And forget driveways. Merely getting our cars to move a few inches was a monumental feat until I remembered an old trick and emptied half a bag of kitty litter under the wheels. Sorry Kitty, you’ll have to crap under the tires for a while.

We have an unusual kind of snow here. Not the nice powdery stuff skiers like; not even the normal snow typical of most snowy states. We have soggy snow, unusually big blobbing globs of it that plop gracelessly from the heavens, often followed by pellets of frozen rain that freeze to everything and take down huge tree limbs that snap and crack in the dead of night — the kind of splintering limbs that echo in the dark while you strain to hear if they’ve landed on anything important — like the car or the barn. And the mix of snow and frozen rain traps even the most innocent. Dog toys, forgotten on the lawn and left to fend for themselves, remain trapped in agonized contortions, alone until they thaw in the weak winter sun.

Now snow in Western New York is generally a lot different and we’re used to it. Most of the time it falls in huge, powdery flakes or delicate crystals. We don’t even stop when a foot of snow falls over night. We have all kinds of snow shovels and snow blowers, and we don our winter gear (very similar to the clothes our mothers stuffed us in as kids), pull on our buckled boots, and trudge out looking like Michelin Men. And we pride ourselves on our ability to build snow forts that last well into April.

I remember when I was in my late 20s and living in the small cottage my family owns right on Lake Erie. That was back when everyone had a cottage and no one had yet gone ego-maniacal, thinking bigger was better, building up and out so thoroughly and thoughtlessly that quaint homes grew into monolithic eyesores only someone with more money than brains could appreciate – or want.

Back then, in the 70s, all the cottages were single story. And because there were very few people who lived on the lake during the winter, most of the houses remained totally engulfed in snow – the only things peaking out were chimneys. When the winds would blow the snow off the lake, which they did with amazing ferocity, the drifts would be so high one could literally walk from rooftop to rooftop. And I often did. Like I said, I was in my 20s. Foolish. And a lightweight.

I was there in that cold little cottage during the blizzard of 1977 and remember listening to the weather reports all morning, warning of the impending storm. I took off for the grocery store in my little hatch-backed Mustang with the studded tires to stock up on supplies. By the time I got back from my short trip downtown, the blizzard had followed on my heels and I vividly remember pulling into the driveway, itself fastly filling with snow, and looking out my car window as the mail box, less than 15 feet away, disappeared. I had witnessed whiteouts before, but never had I seen snow fall at such an alarming rate.

I slid my way into the house, groceries in tow, and turned on the TV. Buffalo was getting pounded , the thruway had been shut down from Erie, PA to past Syracuse, NY, and people were trapped in their cars. I had made it home just in time before they closed Routes 5 and 20, the main highway from town to the Bay. Realizing the severity of the situation, I grabbed the shovel and brought it inside. I would be glad I did.

This was bloody exciting! I watched out the window as the snow continued for hours, unabated. When I finally turned on the CB radio, I heard truckers trapped on the highways. Now it was getting serious. By the end of the day, the highway patrol had rescued dozens of stranded motorists. And still the snow kept falling. By the end of the storm 9 bodies were found frozen to death, having been trapped in and suffocated as the snow engulfed their cars.

In the coming days I was glad for that shovel because I had to dig my way out of the cottage on several occasions. The CB was my one link to the outside world for many days after that. I talked to truckers, motorists, townspeople, and cops. The one neighbor down my road who lived full time with his family on the Lake was the only person making it in and out of the Bay. I think the only reason the snowplow came down our road was because he was a physician and the town needed him. He too had a CB, and we’d talk as he made his way through the weather. Even with a range of only a few miles, it was still an effective way to communicate and made everyone feel a little less isolated.

It was a thrilling and deadly storm, but New Yorkers took it in stride.

Now we have The Weather Channel, and they hype up the damnedest things. Buffalo gets 10 inches and you’d think the world was ending. Columbia, Tennessee has three flakes circling the town and the whole place comes to a screeching halt. Because they believe the hype from the weather gurus, they salt the roads before the snow comes, and when it rains instead, all the salt is washed away, leaving people spinning their wheels on black ice when the freeze finally hits.

Black ice. I’d never heard of black ice until I moved to Texas and experienced it firsthand. In New York, even after the snow plows scrape past, there’s usually a thin coat of snow on the roads and you can get a pretty good purchase and traction. In Texas, when the rain and snow does freeze, it creates the illusion of a clear road until you try and stop. Then all hell breaks loose and you can tell the Yanks from the Southerners. The Yanks are the ones not in the snow banks. It was always fun, as a Yankee turned naturalized Southerner, to marvel at the fools in Dallas who’d slap on the chains and go spinning down Central Avenue. Hey, Stupid – metal on ice – that’s how ice skating works!

For the most part, I don’t miss Western New York winters. They were fun when I was a kid but if I tried to shovel my driveway now I’d end up dead from a heart attack. I don’t like being cold for more than a few minutes at a time, and I’m not crazy about losing trees to ice storms. I hate not knowing whether the car will start, and detest getting snow in my shoes and down my pants.

What I do miss are the clear winter nights when the snow is so cold and fresh it sparkles in the moon light and squeaks under foot. I miss hearing the snow fall in the still wintry night. I miss filling my lungs with cold air and breathing out rings of frosty breath. I miss ice skating outside until my toes are numb, and the fun of flying down a hill on an aluminum saucer at breakneck speed. I miss waking to a hoar frost on the wheat fields, and the absolute silence a blanket of snow brings.

But honestly, this past snowfall here in Middle Tennessee wasn’t so bad. Aside from losing part of the fence and some pine tree boughs, it was beautiful. The dogs loved digging for voles in the ice-frozen soil and shaking off snow in the living room. I enjoyed the extra day off my wife got when the car wouldn’t budge. And when the sun finally broke through the clouds, the ice on the trees made everything magically sparkle and twinkle, creating rainbows glinting off the branches. The fields of snow, covered in a thick sheet of ice, glistened like polished glass. And it was beautiful even as it started to melt, when the wind sent icicles falling from branches to land on the glass-like snow and ring with a musical, tinkling sound.