Maybe it’s three weeks of underwhelming winter mix,
Or maybe it’s a week of stuffy head, or maybe it’s my advanced age
but you might find this episode just a bit cranky.
I have written to the states of North and South Carolina and to the Secretary of Transportation requesting that Interstate 85 be re-routed south to about Chester. It could take a right at Spartanburg and then head north again at about Florence. I am sure it was just a planning oversite but that damned highway has robbed us of snow. How many times have you watched the weather and heard, “Beautiful fluffy snow from the mountains down to I 85. Below I 85 there will be sleet, freezing rain, messy slush and dangerous spots of black ice on the road to Wal-Mart.”
I want my snow back! I am tired of looking at the Facebook with all its “Winter Wonderland” photos while I eat crunchy desperation sleet cream. and another thing…who wants to go out and catch freezing rain on their tongue or make grass angels?
For days before the first “wintry event” of the season, local weather forecasters begin to compete for attention with hopeful snow-covered forecasts. While six inches of snow could mean being housebound for a couple of days, it is like being held captive in a Disney movie. With an ice storm we get a couple of days of dark cold houses and sandwiches.
I do enjoy sitting in my car outside Home Depot to watch newly transplanted folks from Ohio or West Virginia carrying out snow shovels and great expectations. Until they move I 85, here’s a tip for newcomers from the frozen tundra above Statesville: fire up your leaf blower to clear the ¼ inch of accumulated winter mix from the driveway.
Locals, suddenly turned survivalists, begin a mad scramble for generators, rock salt, bread and milk. During the last rush I was barely able to snag the last two family-size packs of M&M Peanuts. Much of humanity disappoints me in their misunderstanding of what is important. If the roof collapses from the weight of all that freezing rain, I want to snack while I wait for rescuers to dig me out.
Along with bread and milk, part of the Hill family snow ritual always included Eagle Brand Sweetened Condensed Milk and vanilla extract. As the first big flakes fell, it was my job to find a space clear of limbs to set out the yellow Fire King mixing bowl for snow collecting. The minute the bowl was full, I would run it into the house and Mom would stir in the Eagle Brand milk and vanilla turning the snow into that magic concoction called snow cream.
The “Cold War” had a brief effect on snow cream production. In the mid 1960’s, there were theories that snow was radioactive and thousands of overly cautious mothers were certain that their children might grow a third eye after consuming too much snow cream. In the South, where snow cream was manna from heaven, we were willing to risk a little genetic mutation.
Back in the old days…we senior citizens do revere the old days…before weather reports were called “Storm Center” or Severe Weather Center”, we would watch WBT weatherman “Cloudy” McClain point to what looked like a hand-drawn map and tell us snow was coming. That was about as far as predictions went. Then came the waiting.
I was always up early when snow was predicted…so early that I couldn’t tell if the ground was green or white much less whether anything was falling through the blackness. As the sun finally dragged itself above the horizon, it brought disappointment or elation. If the ground was covered, school was out of the question. If snow was falling but not covering the ground then a second wait began.
I would would tune my transister radio in to WRHI in Rock Hill to wait for school closing announcements. Somewhere, in the gloom of morning, the school superintendent was driving around the worst roads trying to make the right call. We kids all knew what the right call was. Once the decision was made and we heard the radio announcement, we were busy putting on layer after layer of clothes and after half a bowl of Wheaties, we were out the door.
Fort Mill would get two or three good snows a year. There was enough to get out the dish pans, trash can lids, cookie sheets, and Coca Cola signs and roam the neighborhoods for a perfect sledding slope. Sometimes even water skis were used with limited success. Every hill in town was utilized (a few older boys, throwing caution to the winter wind, even gave Main Street a try. After all, what’s a car accident or a collision with a train compared to the thrill of an illicit sled ride?)
And birds…did I mention birds? While local prognosticator J. B. Mills predicted the number of snows according to the number of fogs in the fall, my mother could always predict the amount of snow by the number of snowbirds (Juncos to be precise) who showed up to beg for a handout. We would scatter pieces of Holsum bread on the porch for the little gray panhandlers. White bread, or light bread as we called it, is shunned these days because it has no nutritional value. The birds were more than glad to get the bread and, I believe, the layer of fat they developed helped keep them warm on those chilly days.
Incidentally (that is a euphemism for “This only slightly relates to the narrative but as it is my podcast…”) What was I…oh, Holsum Bread was our bread of choice because our own singing cowboy, Fred Kirby told us to buy it. So did Arthur Smith and his band, the Crackerjacks on their weekly show. We all sang along with Fred to “Big Rock Candy Mountain” and “Pretty Little Tweetsie,”and like the kids in the bleachers loved the Little Rascal Films. If Fred said buy Holsum bread, then Holsum bread it was. There was a bonus to buying Holsum Bread. It you saved two wrappers and added two rubber bands, you had yourself a pair of Southern galoshes.
Arthur Smith also told us to buy Tube Rose snuff (If your snuff’s too strong it’s wrong, buy Tube Rose, Mild Tube Rose) but Fred Kirby would never encourage tobacco use for kids.
We had so much snow in the 1960’s that downhill skiing became popular in the North Carolina Mountains. Blowing Rock Ski Lodge (Later Appalachian Ski Mountain) opened its slopes in 1962 and every scout troop and church youth group signed up for a trip. Don’t picture the fancy-schmancy micro-fiber ski outfits. The standard ski attire was long underwear, blue jeans, a rag wool sweater, army surplus ski jacket, wool gloves and a toboggan cap.
With so many beginners, it was the Wild West on the slopes. Most of the first time skiers knew just enough to point their skis down the hill. Stopping was accomplished by falling over or running into each other. Chair lifts came later so early skiers had to learn to ski up the hill pulled by a t-bar. It was easy for beginners to fall with a T-bar and on his first trip up the mountain, my forty-five-year-old father, who was chaperoning the group, crossed his skis about half way up the big slope and fell beside the T-Bar.
Instead of skiing down and starting over, Dad worked his way to the top walking sideways on his skis. By the time he reached the top, he was exhausted and after a fall-filled downhill trip, decided that the warmth of the lodge and a hot toddy were the better part of valor.
It has been too many years since we’ve had a snow worth putting on boots for and young children believe snowmen are imaginary. I am sure our snow conditions will improve as soon as the new south 85 route is in place. I don’t expect credit for the suggestion…maybe just a bronze plaque on a small bridge over some nameless creek. Maybe I can set up a “Go Fund Me” to purchase the plaque.
As for those folks below my new south 85 route…don’t feel bad for them. Sure, they will still get that sleet and freezing rain but it’s their own fault. They should have sent out letters…like I did.
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