THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Saturday, February 18, 1995 TAG: 9502180028
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Column
SOURCE: Larry Maddry
LENGTH: Medium: 77 lines
THERE WAS A nighttime snowfall about a week ago. Next morning, while drinking coffee, I was surprised to learn that snow flakes had twirled through the chilled black sky to our rooftop.
Pansies in the planters on my deck were lightly dusted with flakes. And across the road, Bay Lake, now frozen, resembled a platter coated with confectioner's sugar from which a white cake had suddenly been removed.
At the office next day, a friend told me how lucky we had been to have only gotten a little bit.
``Could have been a lot worse,'' he said. I was silent on the subject. Snow lovers tend to do that. The world breaks into two camps over snow: those who want no part of it and those who do.
And those who do are mighty quiet about it - in the way some folks are about having voted for Bill Clinton.
Over time, you learn to identify the snow lovers in your workplace and seek their company in a clandestine way. When two snow lovers get together say, perhaps over lunch or in the elevator, the meeting is not unlike a communist cell meeting.
``Do you think we'll get some this weekend?'' one asks.
``I dunno,'' the co-conspirator replies softly, glancing around. ``Forecast only says flurries, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed.''
Trust me, there are a lot of closet snow lovers out there. We like to sit before a fire and watch the flakes ride the wind - white dots zig-zagging between the jagged limbs of trees.
We long to see the magical transformation of land softened by the fluffy fabric of deep snow - the enchanting blueness of it at first light and the rose-colored rinse as the sun inches above the horizon. We yearn for the hushed forest with its somber branches etched in whiteness, the broad floor punctured by the delicately placed print of a deer, seemingly reluctant to mar the untrammeled purity of white drapery underfoot.
And we hunger for those late season snows that come unexpected, planting icy crystals like frozen tears in the upturned cups of daffodils.
But we don't talk about it much.
``Snow? How can you like snow?'' ask the unimpressed. ``You can't drive in the damn stuff. It gets slushy and tracks up the house. Give you a heart attack shoveling it out of your driveway. Damned nuisance is what it is.''
Snow lovers have heard that all before.
How can I like snow?? If you are blind, how do I explain the color blue to you?
The snow lovers' silence comes from experience. Once the snow comes, it causes trouble. Parents must come home from work to be with young children released early from school.
We are challenged on the first workday after a weekend snowfall.
``Well, we finally got it,'' a colleague will say, changing his wet socks. ``I certainly hope you are satisfied!''
All my fault, you see.
My usual reply is one stolen from a minister with whom I played tennis until it began to rain.
``Look here, reverend, can't you do something about this?'' I complained, glancing skyward.
He answered that he was in marketing . . . not production.
We snow lovers keep our vigil now: watching weather patterns on The Weather Channel, dialing the weather on Infoline. Hoping for a good weekend snow but willing to accept anything.
I'd like a snowfall of at least a foot, beginning in early morning on a weekend - giving plenty of time to watch the first flakes, like white notes of music, build to a blinding, wind-billowed symphony. And then maybe a parting of clouds, revealing patches of stars sparkling like chips of ice high above. And then the moon rising, revealing a shimmering winterscape of whiteness all around except in those places where the dark and twisted shadows of a live oak tree are inked onto a page of snow.
Yep, that should do it. We are a silent minority. But we keep our fingers crossed. by CNB