No matter how badly I crave snow, the skies above Nashville fail to deliver. With much of Tennessee covered in white on Saturday and Sunday, Nashville emerged with a token dusting that condensed as soon as they sun rose.
The wind was worthy of Norse legends and the mercury barely beat the freezing point. Yet the backdrop, those gentle hills marking Middle Tennessee, remains gray and dreary.
I have never craved a decent snowfall more than this awful winter. Surely, one snowfall worth a damn is not asking too much. In two winters, he had one last March, which dropped three inches and sent snow this whole chionophobic region to the grocery store for emergency supplies.
Seriously, I'll be content with a Tennessean when panic cleans out the milk section.
Someone asks me today when it gets hot here. The season could be stifling by mid-May, and not relent until late October. We don't have a taste for spring or fall; each literally lasts weeks, if that.
I'm beginning to wonder if I belong somewhere with real winters and four seasons, not just six months of cold and dreary soldered to six more of blistering humidity.
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