By: Mary Ann Ellis
My love affair with snow began long ago when I read romantic stories of that white wonder that so entertained children everywhere.
As a child, I whined to my parents because it snowed so rarely in Hazlehurst, and I wanted to build a snowman.
“Couldn’t we move north?” I begged.
“Well, no, we couldn’t,” they told me.
It did snow occasionally back then, releasing us from school for a day once in a blue moon. Usually the snow melted before noon and our snowmen and snowballs were skimpy at best, but we made the most of them. First of all, people in South Georgia don’t have much in the way of snow clothing; we had even less back then. What we did have was inadequate. We’d stay outside for fifteen minutes, then, dripping wet, we’d come running back to the fireplace to warm up, one side at a time.
When I went to the University of Georgia, we had an inordinate amount of snow my freshman year. The snows came in January, heavier than I’d ever seen. We “borrowed” lunch trays from the cafeteria because they made perfect impromptu sleds when Lumpkin Hill screamed our names. We scraped elbows, knees, and even faces, but ignored the pain to revel in all that wondrous snow.
The first Monday of winter quarter, I started down the steps outside Le Conte Hall, and slid all the way down three sets. I sprained my ankle severely, scraped my elbows, and wound up on crutches for the next two weeks. What a mess! Naturally, my eight o’clock class was as far north on campus as you can go, and my nine o’clock, on south campus. The bus system was less than efficient back then. I was late every day for that 9 o’clock geography class. Such catastrophes did not dampen my enthusiasm for snow though. I loved it.