Snow on the Patties

I’m a weather-watcher, a Weather Channel fanatic, so when I saw the snow graphic on the Local on the 8’s Daypart Map, I kept watch. All day Wednesday, I watched the gray skies and kept one eye on the satellite map. On the Regional Doppler screen, I watched green approach Williamson County and noted pink spreading upward from Alabama. It was supposed to be snowing in Franklin by five.

And by golly, it was! Snow poured down, like a blizzard — big, beautiful flakes whooshing from the sky like Fourth of July fireworks … like thousands of white rockets flooding down … like comets leaving long tails. I yelled out some snow squeals, and I danced from window to window, watching it fall. I stood on the back porch in it and let it pelt me. I held my hand out, and there were flakes so big they nearly covered my palm. Clean, refreshing, pure, innocent snow.

In mere moments, the yard lay in white — white that lit up the night sky. Plump, fluffed snow piled up on bushes and cars and mailboxes and lined the branches of the dogwoods out front. The whole neighborhood was white — a winter wonderland reminiscent of the lyrics of a childhood song: “It’s a marshmallow world in the winter, when the snow comes to cover the ground. It’s a time for play, it’s a whipped cream day. I wait for it the whole year round!”

My neighbor’s little boy always makes the first snowman in Wimbledon and within an hour after the first flake, his was up and dressed.


Thursday morning out back, the frosty icing had melted. There was still an inch covering the bluebird house on the fence, where birds won’t nest because cats can tiptoe across the fencerail and poke a paw in the front hole. There was snow remaining on the wooden border across the back flowerbed. There was snow spattered around Dad’s Memorial Garden. His birthday was yesterday. He would have been 86. His birthday is also today. He was born way out in the country, and the doctor’s late arrival came after Dad’s appearance, so while he was born on the sixteenth, it is recorded on his birth certificate as the seventeenth.

I headed out to Nashville this morning, and as I drove across South Berry’s Chapel Road beside the pasture full of black cows and green grass, I grew amused at hundreds of cow patties topped with snow. The snow had long since melted in the fields, and only a reminder of it lingered in what looked liked snow-capped volcanoes.


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