By Gwen Rockwood, newspaper columnist and mom of 3
Greetings from America’s Southern freezer. This is the first time I’ve written a column wearing gloves that cover everything but my fingertips, which must keep typing to stay warm. Stationed next to me is a radiant heater I’ve nicknamed Toasty Thomas, who is turning out to be an ideal co-worker. Not only is he as quiet as falling snow, he envelopes me with just enough heat to blunt the wintry draft.
This recent polar plunge into sub-zero temperatures swallowed up a huge swath of the United States. Here in the South, we prepared by buying every loaf of bread and carton of eggs within a three-county radius. With the fridge fully stocked, we perched by windows to watch what our local weather forecasters predicted would be an epic winter storm.
Tom and I stayed up late to see the first flakes of snow. They were tiny but swirled down fast and furious, lit only by the light of the streetlamp. By morning, the street and yard were covered just enough to annoy the dog we sent out into the fresh powder to do his business. Only two hours later, the dog’s short legs completely disappeared beneath the snow when he trudged beyond the front steps.
When the sun went down, we thought the snow had stopped. We opened the door for a closer look and realized the snow had slowed but the ice had just begun. Tiny ice pellets rained down at such a fast clip that it sounded like a bowl of Rice Krispies cereal — snap, crackle, and popping its way onto every available surface.
For us, this storm felt different because it was the first big one we’ve had without kids in the house. For so long, our snow days involved bundling up little ones who wanted to sled down the nearest hill, making grilled cheese sandwiches on demand, and refereeing sibling spats when someone broke the “don’t throw snowballs at a face” rule.
But this time, two of our three kids are on snowy college campuses, and the oldest — who lives five hours south of us — experienced his first power outage as a rent-paying adult. He spent more than 30 long, frigid hours in the dark before power was restored to his ice-covered neighborhood.
Since we didn’t need to feed the kids this time around, we fed the birds instead. Several of them showed up on our deck to take a turn at the hanging bird feeder. I thought perhaps they’d eaten too much when I noticed how even the smallest birds suddenly looked fat. But my mom explained that they’d fluffed up their feathers to trap warm air next to their bodies — the bird equivalent of putting on a puffy coat.
The rest of the snowed-in weekend, we made chili, hot tea, cookies, and played cards. We watched movies and even did a few of those annoying household projects you avoid on most days but have no excuse not to do on a snow day. As the deep freeze continued, we began to lose track of when we’d last taken a shower, a common hazard of snow days in the South, where no one expects you to leave home when there’s more than a dusting of snow on the driveway.
Our snow totals weren’t as epic as the weather forecasters predicted. We got about eight or nine inches instead of the 13 inches we were warned about. But five days later, we still have snow on the ground as temperatures stay stubbornly low. I haven’t seen an Amazon delivery van on our ice-glazed street in days, and I wonder if the people at Chick-fil-A miss me yet. I’m starting to have dreams about their waffle fries.
The temperature should reach 40 degrees in a couple of days, so I’ll bust out of here when the thaw clears the way. The long, lazy snow days have been lovely, but the birds need another bag of seed. And I could use a dose of life on the outside. Stay warm out there, my friends.
Gwen Rockwood is a syndicated freelance columnist. Email her at gwenrockwood5@gmail.com. Her book is available on Amazon.
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