W. Curt Vincent
Editor
My innards have been clenching like a wadded-up piece of scrap paper this week, all because of the weather forecast — which amounts to deju vu all over again.
Having spent the better part of my first 30 years far enough up north to know what it’s like to shovel a driveway three times in a day (cursed snowplows) and use the outdoors as a refrigerator/freezer because the power has been out for a week, my goal was always to move far enough south to avoid such nonsense.
I can accept the cold. I even don’t really mind it. After all, it’s still somewhat nice to have some kind of seasonal differences.
What I’m thoroughly against, however, is snow.
The sight of a single snow-flurry makes me grumpy, because it wisks me back a few decades to my early adult years when waking up to 10 inches, 20 inches and even 40 inches of snow wasn’t uncommon. And that doesn’t even account for the snowdrifts that would take far more than a yardstick to measure.
The only time I even think about liking snow is on Christmas Eve when I watch “White Christmas.” When they sing “snowwww, snowwwwww, snowwwwwwwwwww” … I can smile a little and wish I had a voice like Bing Crosby.
Despite what the calendar claims, I know that January is when winter usually makes itself known in this part of North Carolina. I recall a January probably about 15 years ago when this area received 7 inches of snow … twice.
Most folks in the area were in heaven. Once they’ve raided the local stores for all the milk, bread and eggs they can find, the next order of business is to get out and enjoy the white stuff that is a rare visitor. Usually I watch the frolicking — which includes attempts to build a snowman or slide down a small hill on any smooth device that can be found.
But that year of the two snowstorms, I found myself outside with several other family members working on a giant snowman. Using a lot of muscle, engineering and ladders, the end result was a snowman that towered 11 feet tall. It was pretty awesome, and attracted numerous people to stop and take photos. A few even asked for their photo to be taken next to Goliath.
Yes, we named it.
Now that more than a few years have gone by, my weaker moments for the snowy winter nightmares have all but disappeared. I now take great pleasure in ribbing my daughter in Upstate New York when she suffers with a snowstorm and it’s 70 here.
But this weekend, I am braced for HER phone call to ridicule ME. They might be dealing with snow and ice and sub-freezing temps, but that’s normal for that area. It’s not here, which gives her all the ridiculing fodder she needs — and she will take advantage.
So as I write this, I am hoping every single one of the meteorologists are wrong, that Mother Nature zeroes in elsewhere and Jim Cantore stays away from our region.
But I’m also braced for the very worst thing to fall from the sky — and thankful it won’t be a hurricane.
W. Curt Vincent can be reached at 910-506-3023 or [email protected].