I Wait For Death Like A Soldier's Wife

Say “snow,” and the world shuts down. The mere concept of frozen, fluffy water falling from the sky is enough to send an entire county into a frenzy. Parents running around to get food for the impending storm, kids refreshing Twitter on repeat waiting for school to be closed, or cyber bullying those twiddling their thumbs on the decision of a snow day.

A slight coating of morning frost can even be enough for a two-hour delay. No one wants to battle the cold, so we succumb to it. Allowing the possibility of precipitation dictates our willingness to continue with daily life. Dictate whether the K-12 students will have midterms or if the college students can sleep in more than they were already planning to.

In Henrico, we feared the winter weather more than anything because in Virginia, we can handle the heat, the humidity, and the rain, but God forbid the rain freeze. We would predict severe winter weather from the number of sleds in the stores and how many people were or were not buying snow shovels. The less that was purchased, the more likely snow was.

But we kids loved the snow days almost as much as we loved when midterms got canceled, thanks to the snow. Our saving grace, the God we prayed to after Winter Break, our silent prayer every time the temperature dropped. Begging for just another day off of school, just another test canceled, just one more day without having to walk the hallowed halls of a deteriorating public school building with grubs falling from the ceiling. Performing the rituals passed down to us by our elders in the hopes of snow:

• Wear your pajamas inside out and backwards
• Flush ice down the toilet
• Put a spoon under your pillow
• Glass of orange juice by the window

Even through college, the hope of a snow day in the Old Dominion persisted. Instead of slipping and sliding on uneven brick, everyone wanted to stay inside and sleep off yesterday’s sleep deprivation (or hangover). Yet I still never bought a proper pair of snow shoes. Opting for my usual Doc Martens and a leather jacket because, and I quote, “the snow isn’t that bad.” My cockiness towards the weather was consistently proven wrong as a ate shit and slipped on the ice regularly. Yet, unlike my Southern peers, I never hated the snow; in fact, my life plan was to move up North, where there would be more snow and more opportunities for me to fall flat on my ass.

Growing up, I knew the nipping cold of a Northern winter. Spending Christmas and New Year’s in New Jersey teaches a person a thing or two about experiencing over a foot of snow. But the old habits of Virginia died hard when I experience my first Massachusetts winter.

My first floor apartment in Waltham was the setting for my first show down with the snow as I rarely opened the blinds. Aimlessly preparing for my day as if this February is the same as any other Southern February where it doesn’t feel like winter but according to the calendar and all known laws of time and space it is winter. Used to a simple sweater and jacket being enough to bare the chilly outside I act as if that is the norm across the board.

But as I open the door to leave, I am gobsmacked at the sight of fluffy white stuff on the ground. In a performance that could rival Jack Skellington, I ask myself, “What’s this?” Forgetting that in Massachusetts, it snows, and that’s normal, and no one panics. I slither back into my apartment and change into something warmer. Throwing on a scarf and hat and guesstimating that will be enough, and maybe if I walk to the coffee shop quickly, everything will be fine.

Braving the weather, I make it to the coffee shop, but when I act surprised at the snow to my barista friends behind the counter, they laugh at me. Having grown up in Massachusetts, this is nothing new; in fact, this is expected, and my Southern soul is the only person here who is surprised. The little voice inside my head that has a slight twang and secretly loves sweet tea (don’t tell my Mom) was so confused about how people were going about their daily lives. The school didn’t shut down, the stores were open and worse, people were driving! DRIVING! In the snow? Absolutely unheard of in Richmond. Inconceivable.

But here I am. In Watch City convinced that somehow my recessive New Jersey genes would kick in and find the lack of reaction to snow by those around me completely normal. Of course, it snows in winter! Of course!

Yet mere hours later, I’m slipping and sliding and falling on my ass during my pitiful attempt to go on a walk. Like books, you can’t judge an iced-covered street by its cover. Even if it looks like there’s no ice and the snow around the sidewalk is melting, there is always ice. So assume there is always ice; if there isn’t any ice, keep an eye out for ice.

My first Massachusetts winter was a culture shock to say the least, but my second Massachusetts winter made me declare a truce with the snow. If there is snow outside, I am inside. If it is cold and windy outside, I am inside. Ironically, when it’s freezing outside my apartment turns into a sauna.

Maybe the snow days of my youth are long gone due to growing up, moving, and climate change. Maybe I’ll never learn to love the freezing cold snow and wicked wind. Maybe I’ll leave the North and admit defeat (unlikely). But I know that the truce I have drawn between winter weather and my thin Southern skin will be in place for many years.