Let it (maybe) snow, let it (30% chance) wintry mix, let it sleet!

With the weatherman predicting snow (at the very least, a wintry mix [barring that, at the very very least, very very cold rain]), I began to reflect upon the evolution of snow in my life.

As a kid, snow was magical. The fact that these tiny flakes of precipitation held the power to delay school for two hours, or, if we were lucky, cancel it altogether, was magical. We relished every opportunity to sled in our hill-less backyard, build short, lopsided snowmen, and throw poorly-packed snowballs at the rowdy neighbor boys. I loved coming inside after playing in the wet stuff, my mittens hardened by the snow to the point where they were no longer flexible, my cheeks numb and bright pink, the tingling in my toes and my soggy pants that had somehow gotten wet even underneath my purple snowsuit. We laid our wet clothes over the vents in the kitchen while mom made hot chocolate with extra marshmallows. We curled up next to the fireplace to warm our hands, a fireplace that would provide the only heat and light when the power went out during a particularly bad storm in junior high.

(Dad and my big sister, early 80's)

The same snow that once could do no wrong in my eyes became an enemy when I was 16 and drove a tiny Honda Civic. The snow that could do no wrong made it impossible for my tiny car to enter my driveway after the plows had cleared our street. I had to rely on the kindness of strangers to help push me into the driveway. This snow also made the trips to and from college dangerous in the winter. The treacherous conditions forced me to pull over in the middle-of-nowhere Iowa one night in January, when I was returning to Des Moines after Christmas break. I spent the night in a hotel, alone and 19, with the doors locked. I had seen one (or a dozen) too many scary movies to know that no one is safe in a hotel alone in the middle of nowhere. Snow and I were on the verge of a break-up after I changed a flat tire on my Accord in below freezing temperatures i a particularly blistery and snowy Des Moines winter. The snow had begun to lose its magic as I grew older and it inhibited my daily life. It wreaked havoc at the airport and after a 15-hour delay at Midway (and $90 later to keep myself occupied with magazines, drinks, food, more drinks...) I was done with snow. I made up my mind to move south.

Now, after having spent a year and a half in Nashville, I miss snow. The grass is always greener, right? I obsess over the weather reports at home and all the other places I live, secretly jealous that there's snow falling everywhere but where I currently reside. But I know, deep down, that once I return north, I'll hate every morning I have to scrape my car and worry about black ice and falling icicles in the city.

Here's to hoping Dan Thomas is right and there's snow later this week! (I can hope for the best of both worlds, right?)