Daily Archives: January 9, 2010

Oh I know the White Stuff well

La neige.  Snowflakes.  White, powdery weaponry.



For anyone who has never seen, touched, or stepped in or through it, I understand how alluring and attractive can be the idea of snow.  Whether just a sprinkle or a smothering of the stuff, it certainly is a gem for the eyes.   I spent the first dozen years of my existence in Marietta, GA.  I recall two very substantial snowfalls.  Snow actually isn’t so rare a sight in Atlanta.  Anyone who has lived here for more than five consecutive years during the 80s and 90s may recall freezing rain over snow, but as the AJC reminisces, the capital city of the Peach State gets her fair spread of it.  Jeffrey Scott’s article mentions January of 1982 and 1983, a “Blizzard of ’93,” an ice storm in January of 2000, and a great snow event in 1973.  I wasn’t alive in 1973, but I do remember the other years.  We lost power in the 2000 ice storm.  Emory University still operated as usual.


Snows of the 80s (I don’t know which year these pix represent; it was probably the one from 83 when I was two years-old):





Snow from 1993 (last year of living in Marietta, I think):




The snow that flanked the back sides of our house was very deep.


Atlanta saw snow in the late 20th and early 21st centuries too.  As for Snow 2010 ( yes, I know I’m a dork):





I may not be as resourceful an opponent against the white stuff as someone from Boston, Chicago, the Swiss Alps, Hokkaido, Japan, or the Nordic countries, but the concept and reality of snow has been adequately demythologized for me.

Adjacent Topic: Campfire Tales 9

Rounding out from the eighth parameter.

Found, fed, and stuck around.  The girl with the argyle socks stuck around longer than she dared to imagine.  She would never know why, truly why the man with the rifle set off again without her — he had to keep moving.  The detour he had taken on account of her had lasted long enough.  Too long if he were to be honest with himself.  She’d even caused him a major setback by consuming part of someone he needed alive.  The girl with the argyle socks would not be privy to this explanation.  Somehow, though, she knew that waiting for him to return would be for naught.  So, she gathered herself and headed towards the road.

The man with the rifle couldn’t have been gone for more than thirty minutes because she could still smell him in the air.  Unless, of course, the wind was blowing that honeysuckle scent in a steady stream from his direction.  Hazel 38.  The only name of his the girl with the argyle socks had.  No matter.  Thanks to him, she wouldn’t have to look for food for at least another two weeks.  What she needed was a bath.  Her hands were beginning to smell like pancakes; her hair was starting to turn blue.  She also had to find the cathedral she had dreamed of twice since being picked up by the man with the rifle.  The girl with the argyle socks couldn’t remember her dreams most of the time, therefore, the ones she could see clearly in her memory were treasured as both rarities and prescient inklings.