Our forecast calls for snow. Southerners react with secretive joy masked by faces of grave concern they mimic from the local weatherman. Rolled up sleeves, tie askew and sporting three days of unshaven beard, our devoted weather personality bravely relays updates from his prominent post at the "Stormwatch Center." His appearance reminds us of the desperation of those reporting in the Middle East, but with much more hope and a much better outcome.
Snow in Georgia is as rare as balmy days in Vermont. It just doesn't happen much and our regional response and state preparation makes the Boy Scouts of America look downright lazy. The media exploits it further by going so far as to name our grievous weather - "Snowstorm 2008" or, if they are really looking for extra hype and hysteria, - "Black Ice: The Secret Killer in Your Neighborhood."
It is a big deal. Groceries are bought, firewood is gathered, and sleds are purchased. Sodded lawns across our fine state will be shredded to pieces tomorrow as ambitious children attempt to sled down hills peppered with maybe two inches of snow. You have to appreciate our enthusiasm, albeit somewhat exaggerated and just a little misguided.
Coming home from a basketball game last night, the topic turned to the possibility of snow. From the backseat my six year old said, "I know where the snow comes from."
"Really?" I asked, not realizing that the curriculum in his kindergarten class included this particular subject matter.
"Yeah," said Chandler. "Jesus drinks a whole lot of vanilla milkshakes and then spits it out everywhere. "