I think everyone that has lived in the in the Deep South most of their lives remember the first time they saw snow.

I do. We were living in Jackson and dad was working for The Clarion-Ledger. He and my mother got me out of bed after dad got home and carried me outside to look at the snow, which was falling and some had accumulated. I woke up early that morning and dashed outside for another look at the snow. It was gone except in a shaded corner here and there. I was heartbroken.

As the years passed, I got to see more snow. One year when I was in junior high — by that time we lived in Natchez — they sent us home from school. They didn’t say why, or at least I didn’t hear why. I walked about a mile or so to my grandmother’s house wondering why we were going home. Then a few flakes of snow fell, and it began falling faster accumulating! I was excited.

My grandmother, and my parents and siblings who came to get me weren’t so excited. We lived in the country and dad had to drive us across St. Catherine Creek bridge on U.S. Highway 61. He went slowly and we made it. Later we heard some hadn’t and I began to learn the reality of snow in the Deep South

After I went to work for The Clarion-Ledger, I saw lots of snow, or so it seemed. Those in more northerly areas would probably laugh at what I consider lots, though I did lead some friends, Rick and Pam, who at the time lived in Mobile, Ala., to our house to spend a day or two until they could go home safely. They had been in Minnesota visiting Rick’s parents. He was kind enough not to laugh at our snow emergency.