"Snow" and "Dixie" may seem like an oxymoron. It's not quite that, but it was unusual when I was a kid. When snow happened, we went wild with joy, like a river suddenly overflowing its banks, unconfined by daily routine, running through the woods, unrestrained, free.

It's popular belief in the rest of North America that the American South doesn't see snow - or if it does snow, the event is rarer than a blue moon. That's true - in some parts of the South. But, as the country music song says: "If you look at a road map of Texas / You'll see that it's a big ol' state." Texas alone is big enough that parts of it are distinctly not Southern. And Texas is only one part of the South. (Side note about Texas: Texas isn't the South, nor the West, nor the Great Plains, nor any other U.S. region, even though it includes pieces of all of the above and more. Ultimately, Texas is just Texas. I'm not from Texas; but some parts of my family have deep roots there, and I have a longstanding love-hate relationship with the Lone Star State.... That's a tale for a different time.)

Some parts of the South have undoubtedly never seen snow in their recorded history - Key West, Florida, and Brownsville, Texas probably qualify. But those places are about as tropical as the continental United States gets. Miami has seen snow. I happened to be in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, with my grandparents a few weeks after that happened, in the winter of 1977; it was still a topic for shocked conversation among the many ex-New Yorkers that dominate that city. New Yorkers are usually so world-weary and cynical that it takes a miracle to shock them. I guess snow in Fort Lauderdale and the '69 Mets qualify, but not much else. :)

South Florida is not Dixie, though. Winchester, Virginia, in the northern tip of that state, is more "Southern" (culturally) than Miami. And Winchester is not the least bit tropical. Winchester is not my hometown, but I've spent time there, and I can assure you that Winchester gets snow.

I grew up at a latitude farther south than Winchester, and farther north than Miami. We got snow. But it was unusual. And when it came in enough quantities to stick around for a day or so, it was memorable.

We had at least a trace of snow every winter. I seem to recall several occasions each year when I'd be in school, bored, looking out the window at the lowering sky... and would get all excited when a few fat white flakes went swirling lazily past. I remember praying that those flakes were just the beginning - praying for a blizzard to close the school for a week. My prayers, predictably, found no sympathy in Heaven, although God probably got a good chuckle out of my passion and persistence.

In addition to the flake-tease, maybe every other year, we would see what we thought of as a "snowstorm". A "snowstorm" was defined as any circumstance in which the ground turned white. Usually that whiteness lasted no more than a few hours if the snow fell by day; if it was a night event, the ground was bare by 10 o'clock the next morning as a rule.

And finally, about once every 4-5 years, we had a real Snowstorm. The stuff was measurable in inches; the grownups got visibly nervous about driving, and worried that they hadn't stocked up on necessities. For kids, of course, it was pure, unmediated Nirvana.

Our house was on a street that ran down a hill beginning about four houses to the west, crossed a small stream that ran under the road through a culvert, and then ascended a somewhat higher slope on the opposite side. By standards of, say, Colorado, this was not much of a "hill". But it was enough to get me up to a respectable speed, headed downhill on my bike or skateboard. I have a small scar on my left knee - a reminder of the time when I was riding double on my friend Paul's bike, and we wiped out just past the bottom of that hill. He was practicing no-hands. It turned out he needed more practice. :) The wipeout was painful, but spectacular. Not much fun at the time; but an acceptable trade-off, in the long run. The pain is gone, the memory is forever.

I remember exactly how old I was the winter we got the most memorable of these Snowstorms. It was the winter of my 8th year. I'm gauging by two things: which particular friends I was closest to, and the fact that I was still attending my old elementary school (3rd grade was my last year there). It was a great year for a Snowstorm: I was old enough to be out on my own with my own friends, instead of tagging along with bigger kids, and not so old I was jaded by the whole thing. Or maybe it's the other way around; maybe the snow made 8 y/o seem special - I'll bet other years would've seemed like the crown of winter's creation, had the Snowstorm come then, instead. Whatever. I certainly didn't analyze it then. I was ecstatic. It was a daylong carnival, and the whole neighborhood from 4-5 year-olds to high-school seniors turned out - there was even a handful of grownups who hadn't caved in to convention.

The snow itself fell mostly under cover of darkness, the night before. This snow wasn't unexpected, although the amount surprised everyone. The preceding evening, I had been over at the junior-high gym playing halfcourt basketball with friends. Suppertime came, and I got on my bike and headed home. The sky was gloomy, the wind was bitter, and I had only a light jacket over my tank top and shorts, and was sweaty from the game. I remember pedaling hard to get home and out of the wind as fast as I could, cursing under my breath. The route home took me down the big hill and up the little hill, and as always I took the dip at maximum speed. I remember that, because the next day I had the great good fortune to see how it felt on a different mode of transport.

My mom was home, and my aunt and uncle and cousins were there for dinner. The grownups were listening to the radio as they went about the routines. That wasn't unusual - but their close attention was. In between weathercasts, they discussed whether it would snow and how much. I walked into the kitchen from the garage just as my aunt was saying, "... snow, that's all we need." This was the first time that day I'd heard the magic word "snow" uttered. My attitude about the lousy weather outside changed immediately. "All we need is snow." Damn right! :)

I ran into the living room where my brothers and cousins were watching TV. I screamed at them, "Snow! It's gonna snow, y'all!!" They shrieked with delight. I heard the adults laughing at us in the kitchen beyond. So what? Snow was magic, and adult-laughter never overcomes kid-magic.

There was, of course, more to my excitement than the abstract concept of a beautiful landscape. A big snow meant school would be canceled! It had to mean school was canceled. No loving God would allow it otherwise. I communicated my theological conviction to my siblings and cousins, at top volume. They shared in my ecstatic revelation, loudly. My middle brother Wally was in first grade, but my youngest brother Beav, and my cousins Nina and Bill were all below school age. No matter. Snow was snow, and it would be a holiday whether you got out of something or not.

Whenever additional family was over at our house for dinner, we ate in shifts, since the kitchen table was too small to hold all of us. The kids got to eat first. This evening, as we scarfed, I insisted on accompaniment: my mom's battered old Kmart AM kitchen radio. My mom always kept that thing tuned to her favorite "easy-listening" station (today's FM equivalent would be "Lite"). Usually that music made me want to puke, but tonight I didn't mind at all. I was expecting an annunciation. I waited for the moment I'd hear The Saccharine Strings Ensemble's syrupy rendition of "Les Bicyclettes de Belsize" interrupted in mid-drip, and trumpets blaring a fanfare, and a voice like that of God Himself, announcing:

"Attention, Danny! Your school will be closed tomorrow, because you're going to get six inches of snow. The city will be paralyzed. Adults will be preoccupied. You and your brothers and cousins and friends are hereby entitled to run wild through the winter wonderland, from morning till night. Thank you, and have a nice day." [click]

That didn't happen. In fact, I didn't hear a single weathercast during dinner. It was music as usual. As time dragged out and no theophanies showed up, I found myself gagging on Mantovani. But this radio station was the "official" school-closing venue, so I tried to keep a good attitude, looking for the gold amidst the pyrite.

With dinner over, and still no word from on high, I decided to approach the source a little more directly. Outside the back kitchen window, we had a small patio that occupied the space between the garage and the screened back porch. I went out there to scan the sky for clues, with a vague notion (hope) that my presence would call forth the snow-clouds.

It was cold as hell outside. The wind seemed stronger. I was still wearing just my basketball shirt and shorts, not even a jacket this time. It was full dark now, and except for the lack of stars and moon, there was no way to tell what was gathering up there. I knew God was a Southern Baptist, and I knew He understood about snow and Dixie. I took a moment to say a quick, silent prayer. Then I hurried back inside, shivering but undiscouraged.

The rest of the evening was without major incident, aside from the five of us kids ricocheting off the walls at irregular but frequent intervals. Eventually, my cousins left with their parents, and at some subsequent point we were made to go to bed. Sleep came hard. As the oldest kid, I was privileged to have my own bedroom at that point in my life, while my brothers shared another room. That night I went into their room and sat on the end of the bed, whispering excitedly, until the parental axe fell and I was banished to solitary confinement in my own bed.

The next morning, I woke up - and as soon as I opened my eyes, I knew. The room was a lot brighter than it had any right to be on a gray winter's day. At the time, snow was sufficiently rare in my existence that I didn't realize it made things brighter - but I knew things were all different, and different had to be good. I jumped out of bed and twisted to face the window. YES!!

It was even better than I'd dreamed. The ground was all white. The gaps and sags on top of the deteriorating low brick wall along our back property line were filled with several inches of snow. I had never seen the wall actually heaped with it, until now.

(Side note about that wall: It was a pretty wretched piece of brickwork, and managed to avoid fulfilling either of the two purposes brick walls should fulfill: (a) it wasn't attractive; and (b) as a barrier it was a joke. The wall was built when I was around 3-4 y/o by my alcoholic uncle, and if you swept your gaze from right to left along its length, you could actually see the progressive deterioration as he went down the line, laying bricks and drinking Scotch: bricks began to look crooked, mortar began to show disintegration [too much sand], and eventually you'd see entire sections leaning at random odd angles. The miserable thing looked worse every year I lived there, until by the time I finished high school it was basically a long skinny heap of collapsed brick, with an occasional forlorn, tottery pillar poking up amid the rubble. It got so bad that my brother once knocked a brick off with a BB gun - he was shooting at a tin can on the wall, and aimed a little low. That snowy day, it looked about as beautiful as I ever saw it, before or since.)

I stood transfixed at the window for a second or two, without conscious thought. Then, satori - I understood what that much snow had to mean: My prayers were answered! No School! No power in heaven or earth would be cruel enough to allow school on a day like this.

I couldn't stand not knowing for sure. I ran down the stairs. I could hear the kitchen radio playing Burt Manilow or Barry Bacharach, or whatever. I burst into the kitchen in just my underwear. My mom was in there, doing breakfast. I demanded, "Is there school?!?" She looked at me, laughed. "Nope! You get a day off." I shrieked. I jumped up and down. I had this habit of shadow-boxing when I was excited, then, and I went full-force at the air molecules in front of me. Picture an eight year-old boy in the middle of a kitchen, wearing nothing but his briefs, jumping and bobbing and weaving and punching, and shrieking. You might say I was excited. :)

Of course I was feverish to get out there. I wanted to dash upstairs, throw on any old clothes I found, and charge right out the door. I had a big, white vision, with my friends as small dark figures scattered over the vast landscape, throwing snowballs and building grandiose forts. I turned and was on the way back toward the stairs at a dead run. My mom's voice stopped me: "Danny, you're gonna eat breakfast before you go out." Damn. But no use arguing. I called back, "Okay, okay". Went back to my room, threw on any old clothes I could find (in this case, yesterday's old clothes), and pounded back downstairs. Breakfast was gonna be quick and dirty.

I burst into the kitchen a second time. This time, my mom greeted me with: "Go wake up your brothers and tell them breakfast is ready." Another delay! But after a momentary fit of pique, I realized they would be snow-companions, too; and the more kids, the more chaos. Back upstairs. Shake the kids awake: "It snowed! It snowed!" They woke up, fast. After a few seconds of slack-jawed gazing out the window, they hustled down in their PJs to dispose of breakfast, with me right behind.

I have no memory of actually eating. My mind was elsewhere. Breakfast was a blur of excited conversation. I can't remember details, but we covered snowballs, snow forts, snow angels, snow ice cream (there are various recipes, but they all amount to eating flavored snow), and sledding. Lots of sledding.

In our garage, in a corner, covered with cobwebs, slightly rusty but still entirely serviceable, there leaned a sled. This was before the age of molded plastic - our sled was the classic Flexible Flyer type, steerable, with red steel runners and varnished wooden deck. The true Flexible Flyer was a specific brand, and ours was a cheaper imitation - the basic concept was identical, though. That thing sat in the garage for years, as far back as I remember. I have no idea where it came from. It wasn't even close to new when we had it. My guess is that one of my uncles owned the sled when he was a kid. I have no idea how long the cobwebs had been twined around it, either; but that was irrelevant - their existence was about to be abruptly terminated. :)

Breakfast was over. Our only remaining barrier was getting dressed. We scraped back our chairs, ready to throw on any old warm clothes we found, and charge outside. My mom said to me, "You're not going out in the snow like that." I was wearing my tank top and shorts from the day before. I said, "Yeah, I am!" and grinned. She aimed the broom at me. :) We got out of there and went up to get dressed.

In our city, I doubt more than a handful of people had much snow-gear or clothing; the typical winter pattern around there was rain. Our household's selection of snowproof stuff was limited. I dug around in my chest of drawers till I found my warmest sweatshirt, which I put on over two T-shirts. No snow pants, no long underwear - my jeans would have to do. I put on two pairs of socks, and dug my only pair of snow-worthy boots out of the back of the closet. Meanwhile, my brothers were busily heaving entire wardrobes around their room, judging from the sound in there; fortunately, my mom came up after a bit to help.

Soon (but not soon enough) we were all dressed. Back down the stairs one last time. The door was our only obstacle... we thought. My mom stopped us in our tracks: "Hold on, boys... You need something for your feet - those boots aren't snowproof." She got out six used plastic breadloaf-wrappers, got our boots off, slid one breadloaf-wrapper over each foot, and got the boots back on again, while we chafed and grumbled.

Time yet? Nope - gloves and hats, next. Naturally, we all got the fingers on wrong the first couple of tries - excitement, unfamiliarity, or both. Hats, like our boots, weren't the snow-proof kind. Wally and I had Little League hats, and Beav wore an exotic red-tasseled number that I can't recall ever seeing before or since that day.

No more delays. Now!! We zoomed out the side door, me in the lead. My feet sank into the white fluff up above the ankles. Ahhhh... It was gonna be way, way better than I'd dared hope. :)

We made short work getting into the garage and grabbing the sled. I got one end and Wally got the other, and we struggled over it while Beav whined. I don't remember how we settled it, but I won. :) As soon as we got out of the garage, I could hear other kids' voices yelling, not far away. I recognized two voices immediately - Eric's and Jon's, both friends. I headed down the driveway to see the action. The action turned out to be a snowball fight. This was better than the sled. I dropped it on the snow, calling back to Wally, "You can have it," and ran to the battleground. I knew when I was needed.

... Too much happened under that gray sky to write about here. It was a fractured day, with light-tangents sparking off in a thousand directions. All the plans I'd imagined, we did, and then some: snowball fights, snow forts, snow ice cream (the end of the day for that one, and a horrendous mess in the kitchen, but worth it - easy for me to say, of course, since I didn't get stuck with the clean-up job.) We engaged in some stuff I'd never thought about doing, including walking on the frozen small stream at the bottom of the hill, until we crashed through the thin ice. Those breadloaf-wrappers were a good idea, as it happened. But the sledding was the main event, the centerpiece of the day's celebration.

The sledding didn't get underway in earnest till afternoon. We spent the morning in the other pursuits noted above. I'm not sure why we didn't get to it earlier, except that the snow forts took a lot of time and energy to construct, and subsequently to defend. (I assume we took a break for lunch in there somewhere, but I have even less memory of that than breakfast.) In any case, sledding was the very pinnacle of that very rarified holiday, given to us freely, an act of pure grace, unearned and unmerited on our part, and all the more exalted for that.

The ingredients for the sledding were as follows:
One street, paralyzed by snow, with little traffic to worry about (and snowplows nonexistent, of course);
Two hills on that street, leading down to meet at the low point where the stream crossed under;
Three or four sleds (our classic model, and a few of the "new" plastic type); and
Five or six or seven or eight or more kids (almost certainly more).

Here was the routine: You began at the top of the higher hill (naturally). You had your sled and at least one other kid-passenger, preferably two (ideal), occasionally three (thrilling but rarely stable enough for a full ride). You positioned the sled at the top of the hill, in the middle of the road. (You were supposed to check for the occasional automobile; we usually forgot, and after a while some adults came out and made us post lookouts.) You and your friends and/or relatives got on - if it was your sled, you got the front slot. And then... you did it. As fast as you could (flailing your arms to add velocity), and as loud as you could. The maximum speed was reached at the bottom of the hill, and at the time, it felt like a jet takeoff - or so we imagined, none of us having ever flown on a jet. The momentum was enough to carry you to the top of the opposite hill, usually, but not much farther.

It was a game of repetition. Over and over and over again. We never got tired of it. Not one bit.

As the day wore on, we invented a few daredevil variations. I was, as always, one of the lead instigators. One such scary maneuver was deliberately steering your sled to one side or the other, instead of arrowing down the centerline. That wasn't so exceptional if you did it at the top, when speed was unremarkable. But the fun and danger increased dramatically if you waited until you were about two-thirds down. Acceleration was a factor, of course. But the real danger was that, if you went off the road at that point, instead of a shallow ditch and someone's nice gentle front yard, you were headed for the stream.

Hitting the stream-bank would mean a big jolt, and icy bath, and possibly damage to the sled and/or the kids involved. I knew all that, and none of it stopped me. I never went off. But there were a few near-misses in which I could feel under my runners the icy pavement change to shoulder gravel, and then the gravel give way to the micro-thin strip of grass along the drop-off. A small tug to the wrong side would send us over. I always managed to tug the opposite way just in time, and we slid back toward the center, accompanied by cries of "Whoo-WHEEEE!" from passengers and onlookers alike.

There were other games of chance and skill. Sometimes, the kids acting as traffic-lookouts became targets (they didn't seem to mind). A few times, early in the event, we ditched the sleds on purpose. Backwards-sledding was invented. And we discussed building a jump, but couldn't think of where to get materials. We all grew up watching "ABC's Wide World of Sports", and that famous "agony of defeat" ski-jump mishap in the show's opening sequence. I don't know a single boy who thought "agony" when he saw that. I knew dozens whose only thought was "Cool!" We wanted to replicate that coolness for our sledding party. Fortunately for our hides, nobody could think of a place to get enough plywood.

Except for the occasional brave driver, we didn't see adults on our sledding hill, till late-afternoon. I suppose they had their own snow-day duties, and undoubtedly some worked for Simon LeGree-type bosses who considered the fluffy miracle a poor excuse for missing work. I remember a few men getting home in mid-afternoon, and coming out shortly with garden shovels or push-brooms to try and clear driveways. I saw my first snow-shovel that day, too: a family up near the top of the hill had one. Their late-teenage son was out for part of the afternoon, and he was hurling snow like a pro with that thing. No surprise. We kids all knew the family had moved in from somewhere exotic, like New England or Michigan or Maryland... someplace where people talked funny and didn't like grits and owned snow shovels and won the War Between the States.

The snow-magic had to come to an end, of course; and it did, in two different ways. The first came in the form of several moms and dads, who showed up in late afternoon, just in time to witness what turned out to be my last suicide-run toward the stream. I don't remember who they were now. But they clearly knew me. I had a reputation already at eight years old, you see. :) Someone's mom yelled, "Hey! Danny! I'd better not catch you doing that again!... In fact, I think you kids have had enough sledding!" Other grownups stated their agreement. A few called their own offspring by name: "Come on, _________, let's go inside... you're probably getting frostbite out here by now." Clearly, the party was over. Kids grabbed snow-toys and began trudging their miscellaneous paths home.

That was the end of the sledding and outdoor excitement. But the second sign our holiday was over - the real sign - came when my brothers and I got to our house. The skies had been cloudy all day; in fact, we kept periodically turning our faces upward as we played, looking (hoping) for additional snow. It didn't happen. And, right as we reached our yard, dragging our sled behind us, came the sign that struck sorrow into our hearts: a single gold sunbeam, sliding low-angled out of the western sky, staining the dazzling whiteness. I'm sure it was pretty, but at that moment the orange-yellow snow had all the charm of a Halloween pumpkin left out till late November. No vampire ever hated the sunshine more than we did at that moment.

Even before that, the warning signs were becoming apparent. The temperature had climbed above freezing, and small rivulets of liquified snow were starting to appear. But Mr. Sunbeam made it official. To no avail, we lodged formal complaints: "Aww, shit. School tomorrow. Fuck." (We weren't really South Park kids, language-wise; but many of us in the neighborhood grew up in households where the adults called a spade a spade - or more accurately, "a fuckin' shovel" - and we spoke accordingly, when the grownups weren't around to forbid us using their goddam language.)

Once inside, we were faced with struggling out of our makeshift snow-gear. I remember taking off my wet gloves, and realizing for the first time that my hands were numb in spots and stinging in others. I wondered if either was a sign of frostbite. I had no idea what frostbite was, but I had a sense that your fingers or toes rotted off if you got it. I went in the downstairs bathroom and ran hot water over my hands. They stung and hurt like hell, and I had the odd sensation for the first time in my life of being unable to tell hot from cold. But full sensation came back after a bit. That didn't seem like a frostbite symptom. I was relieved.

Now that I was inside, away from the immediacy of the snow-excitement, I realized something else: My legs and butt were wet and getting chilly. I had those breadloaf-wrappers on my feet, and a heavy (by Dixie standards) winter coat, and the hat and gloves; but I was wearing only Levis (and briefs underneath) from my waist to my lower calves. My legs and butt had spent plenty of time in direct contact with snow, and not all of the frozen stuff had remained frozen. It seemed like a good idea to change.

I ran upstairs (I don't think I walked anywhere that day) to the bathroom, stripped off my pants and underwear, hung them over the shower rod, dried off vigorously with a towel, then went down to find some clean dry stuff to wear. My mom wasn't noted for getting to the laundry promptly, and once again there wasn't much to choose from. I wound up with my last pair of clean underwear and a pair of cutoffs. (That wasn't as odd as it might seem; I wore shorts alot, even in winter. I wear shorts alot still, at close to 40 years old. I was then, and still am today, one of those guys whose legs never get too cold - as long as they're not getting buried in snow all day long.)

Suppertime was an hour or so away, so we were at loose ends till then. The default was TV, and TV was where we found ourselves parked after that frenetic day outdoors. My mom tuned in the local news at 6 p.m., as usual, and the lead story was the snow. Scenes were shown of kids sledding in the snow, kids throwing snowballs, kids having fun... and adults scraping car windshields with credit cards, and grumbling. We got alert during the kids-segment, looking for ourselves or our friends; but the scenes were in another part of the city. (The scenes are always in another part of the city.) The piece concluded with foreboding words - I don't recall the full text, but Bad Language was used: "one day vacation" and "already melting fast" and "normal school schedules tomorrow". Now it was really over.

We'd forgotten about snow-as-dessert; but now my mom, bless her, reminded us: "Boys, after dinner, if you want to go out and get some clean snow, we can make some snow ice cream." Although nothing could banish our disappointment over the day's drawing to a close, that helped cut the gloom a bit. I wouldn't say that snow ice cream was the pinnacle of our snow holidays. The novelty was always more important than the taste, which was nothing special. But snow was rare enough to be special, and therefore so was snow ice cream.

Dinner came and went, accompanied by a certain degree of squirming. As soon as decently possible, my brothers and I carried our plates to the sink - then: "Okay if we go out to get the snow now, Mom?" It was okay. So out we stampeded, pausing only to grab some saucepans. My brothers had changed clothes at some point before dinner, as I had; but they were smart enough to put on long pants and to keep their boots on (or more accurately, my mom was smart enough to dress them that way). I was wearing my cutoffs and sneakers with no socks. I had my layered sweatshirt and T-shirts on, but that wasn't the part of my body that sank three inches into the snow. :) At least it was a quick trip. We went out to the patio where the night before I'd tried to fathom the snow gods, and scooped up one saucepan-full each, then hustled back inside.

I've subsequently heard many recipes for snow ice cream over the years. We knew only one, then, and it was simple: Take your saucepan full of snow, stir in some milk, some real ice cream (vanilla), and some vanilla extract - then eat it fast before everything melts. That's what we did. My mom (who, to her great credit, was usually remarkably tolerant about kitchen chaos of this sort) let us do it by ourselves, even five year-old Beav. The result was three satisfied boys, and a horror show on the counter next to the fridge, consisting of melting snow, spilled milk, vanilla ice cream lumps, haphazardly-stacked saucepans, and roughly twice as many spoons and bowls as we actually needed. We were commanded to clean up, and we did our best... but I think we had more spirit than technique in that department. I remember my mom getting out the mop and bucket soon thereafter. :)

All good things come to an end. There were post-dinner baths and all that evening rubbish. Bedtime finally came. I was still saying my bedtime prayers then, as good Baptist kids did, and I prayed for a new snowfall - knowing it was unlikely, but knowing miracles could happen.

The next morning, as soon as I woke up, I repeated my previous day's actions - jumped out of bed and looked outside. Snow was still on the ground, and for an instant I felt a wild hope. Then I noticed the still-distinct footprints crisscrossing the back yard, and the sections along the back wall where we'd scraped the snow off yesterday - still bare. I'd already accepted the inevitable, so this wasn't crushing... disappointing, but expected.

Routine as usual. I got dressed, ate breakfast, went to school. Except for the constant verbal replay with my friends of all the excitement, it was a pretty standard 3rd-grade day. By mid-morning at recess, the stuff had turned to slush; we were forced to abandon plans to get in one last round of snowball exchanges. By mid-afternoon, when school let out, only obscure shaded corners still showed patches of white. It was over. The fact was so obvious that when David suggested we skip basketball and look for some snow, we just hooted.

As a resident of the North, snow is a routine part of my life now. But I hope I never forget the transformative power of a few hours in the Southern snow, and the innocent joy, the innocent joy and magic that it brings to a boy's life, and those of his friends.