I can count the number of times I have seen real snow in my hometown on one hand (probably on just three fingers if I exclude the occasional dustings). Needless to say, I’m a Southerner at heart, no matter how much I try to deny it.
The South is great for music, food and summertime, but one thing it has always missed is a winter wonderland.
Throughout my childhood and teenage years, my biggest wish every winter season was to get just a speck of snow. I was a big proponent of wearing pajamas inside out, flushing ice cubes down the toilet and sleeping with a spoon under my pillow — all of the superstitions that supposedly led to snowfall. There was nothing more soul-crushing than waking up the next morning and seeing the disgustingly green grass outside my window.
It was not until I started at Wake Forest that I came face to face with the snow of my dreams. Though it took until sophomore year, I eventually found out that the snow that I so desperately longed for could sometimes be more trouble than it was worth.
While sophomore year began with heat and mostly sunny weather, I was greeted with a few flakes of snow towards the end of the semester. I remember jumping from my chair in a study room, abandoning some overdue homework and dragging my friends outside to witness the magic with me. My other Southern friend was almost as amazed as I was, and we laughed, danced and stuck out our tongues to catch snowflakes while our two northern friends watched in confused amusement.
After a mad rush to the quad, we found other people also entranced by the sight, gathering ammo for snowballs and taking millions of pictures. It was hilariously easy to tell who was from where. The Northerners stayed on the outskirts of the Quad, hands stuffed in their pockets, eyebrows furrowed at each snowflake and faces nonchalant.
On the other hand, the Southerners were running around, flopping down to make snow angels and losing their minds with joy. I scoffed at the Northerners’ disinterest and jumped into the Southerners’ snow-crazed madness.
The next morning, the snow was mostly gone, except for the shady spots and the tops of buildings. The whole thing felt like a wonderful dream, and I left for break, hoping for more magical Wake Forest snow when I returned.
My wish was more than granted. Snow fell once again at the very start of the second semester, and I once again ran out into the winter wonderland to do every snow-related activity I could dream of. Once my nose was sufficiently red and my fingers were nearly frostbitten, I said goodbye to the snow and retreated to my dorm for hot chocolate.
The next morning, though, I was shocked to find out that even more snow had accumulated on top of the previous night’s flurry. That day, I once again trekked out into the snow with friends and repeated snowy activities, even cardboard box sledding down a hill with some very southern friends, before realizing that I had checked off my imaginary snow bucket list. A snowman had been built, at least 10 snow angels had been made, snowballs had pelted at least all of my friends once, and I had even gotten some pretty pictures of Wait Chapel cloaked in its wintertime attire.
I retreated early to my dorm again that night, starting to feel like I had seen all that snow had to offer. The magical charm that snow used to hold was starting to become a bore and, eventually, a nuisance.
The first betrayal of the snow came in the form of an ice patch in the Davis courtyard.
A few days after the novelty of the snow wore off, I decided I needed to go on with my usual campus routine. I was on my way to pick up a quick lunch from Benson, bundled in a heavy coat and the thermal socks my mom had shipped me when she saw the forecast when my feet fell out from underneath me. The way I slipped on the ice was nearly cartoonish. I might as well have slipped on a banana peel. From that day on, the snow and I became arch-nemeses.
No matter where I went, snow seemed to follow me. Even as I drove my car, the snow haunted me as it tried to send me sliding into oncoming traffic. My shoes were continually drenched by slushy, dirty snow, and my eyes were always searching the ground for dangerous patches of black ice.
Once again, it was blatantly obvious who was from the North and who was from the South. The northerners were ready with their ice scrapers for their cars and fitted with winter boots to protect from the slush. They didn’t even need to glance down to clock a patch of ice. Now, I understood their less-than-thrilled reactions to the snow. They were used to this menacing, annoying type of snow instead of the Hallmark movie magical dusting that I had grown up imagining.
I’m both proud and sad to say that I’m a reformed snow believer. While I still can’t entirely snuff out that giddy Southerner in me who wants nothing more than to jump into the snow, I’m also learning to channel my inner Northerner and recognize when the snow has overstayed its welcome. I’ve learned that snow is a wonderful guest but a terrible roommate. It can be fun to spend a day with, but I’m not sure if I want to wake up to it every morning.
I’m always happy for another snow day, as long as it doesn’t turn into a snow week.