Reflecting on a Once-in-a-Decade Occurrence
By Lauren Poster
On the evening of Friday, February 12th, something amazing happened: the Weather Channel was right about something. While this in and of itself was reason for ancestral drum banging, there was more. It snowed. And something funny happens when it snows here. People along the Grand Strand morph into a broad mixture of everything from doddering ninnies to awestruck, amateur photojournalists. Our annual marathon, which is kind of a big deal, was sadly cancelled due to the “event” and its unpredictable impact on road conditions.
/media/images/300_7654_2.jpgEarly on I was skeptical. Friends had rescheduled dinner plans with us. Lives were in turmoil over what I was sure would turn out to be another incident of overly-hyped nothing. Intent upon at least finishing my pre-Valentine errands, I dismissed the light smattering of slush and hopped into my car. I was faced with what I would affectionately call a bunch of less-than-savvy people lining the roads, pulled over in anguished confusion, veering crazily like compasses in the Bermuda Triangle. However, as I drove on I realized that ill-equipped motorists were not my only hazard. The snow began to pelt my windshield in solid, powdery puffs and finally I recognized the presence of weather that is, essentially, not kidding around. It surrounded me, reminiscent of the way stars look when you’re in a time warp.
Snow has a a solemn, reverence-inspiring quality in clammy climates like ours. Like watching a healer at work, or gazing upon the imposing rocks at Stonehenge, there is little that can be said to the low hum generated by its magic. I have talked to people from the north about this, asking whether they feel this power in something which is for them so commonplace. From what I gather, first snow is always a little majestic. Five months in, the observer may feel differently. But the climactic moment when nature gives birth to such a life-altering change rarely goes unnoticed.
For me snow has always symbolized quiet, innocence, a slowing of the clock. In a place where everything teems, where the entire population and its peripheral wildlife all seem to suffer from terminal restless leg syndrome, snow is a boon. It is an enforced moment of inactivity, a pious hush in the loud cafeteria that is everyday life. Above the din, a monstrous thing rises, louder than your silly noise, colder and more in control. Snow is more experienced than you. Snow is wiser. Snow reduces you to a series of ephemeral moments beneath its eternal grandeur. And even though it was only here for a moment, for people like me it is a moment that will endure.
That night I dreamt of beautiful dun-colored blankets quilting the cave-like dwellings of fauns. I saw against the backs of my eyelids starry constellations of ice, flavorless sugar dusting the overhead branches that interlock sky and earth. And when I woke up Saturday morning, it was all melting furiously away into the receding paths of memory. In a few hours, it would be gone. And despite the inconvenience it caused, I couldn’t say I was sorry to have spent a few hours in bizarro-world. Snow on sand is an indelible image, whether you live in the north, the south, or the middle. While incredibly sorry for the runners, I try to remember that we have no control, and that we must only enjoy what comes to us when it comes.
Im not wrothy to be in the same forum. ROTFL