If I could have come home to The Great State of Alabama this week, I would have.
Unfortunately, like everything else from Maryland to Maine, the airports here in New Yuck City were covered with snow. Lots of snow: 24.5 inches of snow.
I'm sure each of you has probably seen snow--not in Andalusia of course, but somewhere. Perhaps on television. Okay, maybe it has actually snowed once or twice in Andy. But as a recap, let me reiterate that snow is frozen rain. It comes down in crystal form. It can be big and wet, or small and dry. When it accumulates, it weighs a lot. A shovel full of snow weighs about eight pounds.
What happens in Alabama when it snows? People go crazy. The weathermen get excited. There's a mad rush for the grocery store (as if two inches of snow might actually force people to pull an Ethan Frome). And after the roads get good and iced over, Bubba invariably gets cabin fever and decides to take the Dodge Ram out for a spin.
My friend Cooter from Albertville got his pickup truck stuck in a ditch and then tried to get it out with his new wench. After about an half hour of pushing, she got tired and up and walked home (sorry, that was shameless).
And God forbid you get caught in Mountain Brook after a snow. For some reason, Brookies think that Mercedes, Volvos, and Saabs operate by different laws of physics than do other cars, "Oh, it's a Mercedes, it's designed for snow driving." Problem is, Brookies aren't designed for snow driving.
Last weekend, New York City had its biggest snow in 50 years. Just my luck. We're talking blizzard here. To go outside I had to put on long underwear, two pairs of pants, four shirts, a sweatshirt, three scarves, ear muffs, a hat, and one glove (I lost the other). All I needed was a spear and I could have been an extra in a National Geographic special. Just call me Nanook of the North.
With winds gusting up to 60 mph, it was -25 degrees in the Big Apple--ah paradise. Dry snow pelted New Yorkers and gathered in drifts that were six feet tall. It would have been easier to make a snowball with sand than with what was coming down outside. Snow angels were out of the question. I did however try to make snowcream. Maybe you remember snowcream? Here's the recipe:
snow milk
sugar cocoa
vanilla more snow
I fondly remember Alabama snowcream. It was good. My mama made it for us. And because I was missing home, I decided to tried it with New York City snow.
You know, someone should put a label on NYC snow that reads, "If digested, DO NOT induce vomiting. Call the poison control center. Pregnant women should not even look at New York snow."
You see, New York City snow collects stuff on its fall from the sky. Mainly, it collects dirt, ash, and smut. Yes, smut. . .you figure it out. I think it's called Acid Snow. Literally, some of the snow is black. It gave me heartburn. Imagine, Acid Snow--don't stick you're tongue out to catch a flake unless you're planning on piercing it. Frosty the Acid Snowman, public enemy number one with flaming fossil fuel for eyes and a button nose: his corncob pipe wasn't politically correct anyway. The Abominable Acid Snowman--just say no.
Frightening images, frightening times.
The good thing about snow in Alabama is that the state is completely paralyzed. Here in New York City, 1,300 snowplows scrapped through the night. Snowblowers, snow shovels, salt, and ice picks battled the blizzard. Fools. It used to be that we let snow sit. And that was the best thing. But New Yorkers are too busy to be stranded. We've got places to go, things to do.
Right.
As of last night, thousands of New Yorkers had been hospitalized for heart attacks after shoveling snow, frostbite, carbon monoxide for sitting in cars with snow blocking the tailpipes, various busted noggins for doing the icy watusi dance, and food poisoning for eating snowcream and that last can of Spam in the back of the pantry.
Me? How did I know the big one was coming? I called Grandaddy. Did Grandaddy feel it in his bones? Did he taste it in the air? No. My grandfather should have been a meteorologist. He measures the rain. He gauges the Barometric pressure. He watches the Weather Channel like it was, well, something entertaining. Talking to my grandfather about the weather is not just chit-chat--the man is serious about natural calamities. So when he said, "Boy, get inside," I knew I'd better run to the grocery store and then hunker down.
So for now, this is Morgan Murphy, signing off from The Andalusia Star News New York City Bureau Igloo.
