When I awoke this morning there was snow in our backyard. Actual snow. My wife and I were giggling like kids on Christmas morning.
This is our first Birmingham snow. We have only been Alabama residents for one week, and already we’ve experienced all four seasons. Maybe five.
I staggered from the bedroom and let two dogs outside to pee. They bounded into a snowdrift, kicking up tufts of white powder, barking like protagonists in a Jack London novel. Their noses were covered in confectioners’ sugar, their paws were blackened with mud.
They rolled around in the snowy grass like they were putting out fires. My wife was so overcome with glee that she joined them.
I haven’t seen her laugh like that in a while. It’s been a long year.
The world looked calm beneath the weight of the new fallen accumulation. There was heavy dusting on our camellias, on our daffodils, on the Virginia creeper, and in the oak trees. The neighbor’s pansies had gone to be with Jesus.
was a stubborn snow crust clinging to every horizontal surface. Snow on my truck hood. Snow on the green Waste Management bins. Snow on the neighbor’s cat.
Snow on powerlines, snow atop fence pickets, snow coating automotive hubcaps. There was even snow covering the statue of the Virgin Mary, perched in the garden of a nearby home. The poor Blessed Mother had an icicle dangling from her nose.
There were thick quilts of snow blanketing distant rooftops, bright white, catching the morning sun. There was snow on window panes, collected in street gutters, topping bird nests, piled on defunct satellite dishes, and on orphaned water heaters, lying dead in the yards of rundown homes.
This morning, when I drove into town to run errands, I passed the train, clacking along. There was a thick sheet of snow clutching to the tops of Amtrak passenger cars, the boxcars, the…