Snowflake descent

I was born in a small town in Georgia called Covington. Though now absorbed into the ever-growing suburbs of Atlanta, my hometown growing up was the quintessential small southern town. It was so quintessentially Southern that even Hollywood took notice. Covington has been the shooting location for several cinematic delights, including the first season of the "Dukes of Hazzard," the television spin-off of the popular film "In the Heat of the Night," and the perennial middle-school favorite, "Remember the Titans". Covington even lives up to every aspect of its movie stereotypes: It boasts a semi-corrupt local government, racism, both overt and institutional, and two Waffle Houses within a three-mile radius. But there was something missing. My life was not complete. There was a hole in my heart that could only be filled by one thing: snow.

Sure, it can be said that it snows in Georgia, but only in the same sense that it can be said that the Queen is the ruler of England or that Dane Cook is a comedian. Many were the days when I would wake up to see thin flurries gently falling to the ground, only to be standing in icy muck by noon. Even the famed Georgia "Blizzard" of '93 only gave us a few inches, and the snow only stayed on the ground for a day or so. I wanted to really experience snow. To enjoy its frosty splendor in full. To know it as one knows oneself.

It was with this in mind that I came to Princeton. I was a wide-eyed young man then, really just a boy, with nothing but aw-shucks charms and a shy smile. My new Northeastern-born friends would tell me grand tales of the snow. Of skiing and sledding and skating. I waited with grand anticipation for the night when the snowflakes would descend from heaven and my dreams would be made whole.

And then it came. I woke up that first day at around noon and opened my window to see a beautiful sight. The whole world was blanketed in lustrous white. The snow that had haunted my childhood was now tangible. I could feel it, touch it, taste it. But I didn't taste it because that would be gross. Putting on my warmest clothes, I went outside to enjoy it before I had to go to class. I didn't play in it per se, but I did throw snowballs at people I knew. I like to think my inner child understood.

Eventually, though, my hand got really cold, and I knew that my Latin wasn't going to translate itself. I left the snow to its own devices and went back to my life as a sophisticated college student-about-town.

The snow was still there when I got back. It wasn't like the snow I was used to back home that would start melting if you looked at it funny. This was the real deal. It was going to stay for a while.

And it did. It just stayed there, day after day. I began to get annoyed. It was wet and cold, two adjectives that do not go well together. The snow and ice made getting to my classes difficult and the trip to Wawa nearly impossible. I found myself trapped in my room, besieged by the winter wonderland.

Over time, portions of the once pristine snow became dirty and sort of brownish. It had become tainted. I realized that perhaps it would have been best if childhood imaginings had remained so. The bitter sting of reality left a poor taste in my mouth. It would be better to keep my fantasies locked away inside, free from the cruel touch of aging. In hindsight, frankly, it was a pretty poor conclusion to draw. But in my defense, the snow was really getting me down.

Eventually, the sun came out again. I was free once more, free to live life as a human being. The long, hard winter was over. I think the actual winter lasted for a couple months after that, but you know what I mean. And now, as what could be the last of this year's snow melts away, I say good riddance.