Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Just call me the Snow Scrooge

Here's a quick refresher on my life: For 35 years, I lived in Georgia.  I did not have white Christmases, a fact I thoroughly appreciated.  For the last five years, I've lived in Michigan, where we've had white Decembers.  But I got to escape the white Christmases by heading South to family and friends.  

I thought this December would allow me the escape I've enjoyed since 2005.  Yes, I'd heard Atlanta's weather forecasters calling for cold temperatures and I'd even heard them mention the "s" word.  But y'all, that happens all the time, people freak out and buy up bread and milk, schools close and then, nothing happens.  So last week, as we packed for our journey South for Christmas, I told me kids to leave their snow boots in the garage because we were having a Southern Christmas!  None of that white stuff for us.

And yet, this is a picture I took driving from Sean's parents' house to my parents' house on Christmas night:


And here's a picture of our car on the same night:


Dadgum it, y'all, we had to scrape our car in Atlanta.  That is not right.

Everyone around me was thrilled.  My nieces and nephews were ecstatic; they were catching snowflakes on their tongues and dancing in the falling snow.  "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas," was on everyone's lips.  All my Georgia friends were posting, "I love snow!" as their Facebook statuses.  I was alone as the snow hater.  

But the real problem isn't snow; it's ice. And the ice got us on Sunday morning.  I was all ready for church, walked upstairs and found we were iced in.  My father's driveway was a sheet of snow and ice and we couldn't make it down the driveway to the clear street:


My only opportunity on this super-short trip to see dear friends like Tina and Jill was thwarted by that winter wonderland everyone was so excited about.

Today, the ice is gone and the snow is mostly melted.  Just in time for us to head back to Michigan, where it will snow for the next three months.  Or four.  Or five.

Dang.

You got me this year, Mr. Snow.  But there's always next year, and I'm going to start hoping right now for a short-sleeve Christmas 2011.  Or at the very least one that doesn't require a snow scraper.