It no doubt happened all across Dixie. A small girl sat, with the blunt end of a red crayon tapping her forehead, chin securely nestled between her thumb and index finger, staring at a precisely folded piece of green construction paper. The purple glitter and opaque glue on her fingers gave testimony to the careful art work on the reverse side of the paper. The only question that remained would be what to ask for? A puppy? A new bike? No, this year, once again, she would ask. THIS year would be different! The non-believers? They could go down to that hot place where the devil lived. (Gainesville--or so her daddy had said to the TV last week!) She would do it! And this year he would deliver. This time Santa Claus would come through. She just knew it.
As she wrote, she could hear her mom in the kitchen fussing about the stove or the turkey. Her dad, styling in his shorts and Hawaiian shirt smirked over her shoulder. Waiting to take the envelope, already addressed to North Pole, to the post office on his way to 18 holes...a Thanksgiving Day tradition that mom didn't mind one bit. "It's a fair trade," she would say, indicating her shopping trip that would begin at Midnight. Thanksgiving in the Southland always meant turkey, golf, football, and shopping.
So, the little girl wrote, in big handwriting and broken letters,
Dear Santa Klaus Claus,
I wont a white Christmas this year.
Love XOXOXO
Sue Ellen.
(and a Barbie)
(an a Xbox 360 with dual wireless controllers. OK, Daddy ass me to write that)
Her dad's smirk was well intentioned and heartfelt. How many times had he asked for a white Christmas. It just didn't happen in the South. His little girl would carry on the generations long tradition of not seeing snow on her own front lawn. Well, golf on Thanksgiving came with a price. One the adults were usually willing to pay. So he kissed momma, took the envelope, headed to the post office and loved every round of sunny, eighty degree golf.
All over the Deep South, such scenes played out. And guess what?! A little Christmas miracle is on its way.
Atlanta, GA? The last white Christmas? 1882.
Augusta, GA? Columbia, SC? If there ever was one, it was the Native Americans who last saw it. There is no record of snow on the ground on December 25th since white people have lived here.
The national weather service has put us under a
Winter Weather Warning. They are expecting up to 3". Folks, that is enough to disable this town! Total white-out conditions for Dixie. Our expectations are low. We've been duped before! (the blizzard of '93? anyone? anyone?) And we've been hit hard. Well, once. 1974. 12" in February. But to say that this causes panic in the South is like saying Granny's biscuits are good. It's an understatement of immense proportions. Let the local weatherman say the word "snow'" and there will be a run on the grocery store for milk and eggs. (What is it about snow makes you want to eat scrambled eggs? I'll never know.) Once, when I was plant manager in Waynesboro, the High Sherriff himself called me at home on a Sunday, and asked me to open the plant two hours late. The forecast was for a dusting, and he didn't want too many people on the road! (It snowed about one flake an acre. Nothing stuck, not even to the grass.) When I was in high school, school was closed because of the temperature! No kidding. Of course it was a high that day of 12, and that's Dixie in the Deep Freeze!
We are just not prepared for this kind of weather. Our coats aren't heavy enough, our cars have no snow tires. We do have a disproportionate amount of 4x4's though!
None-the-less, I say...
Let it snow baby,
don't let it rain dear.
Dreaming of a white Christmas since 1973....
