When I was a kid, I loved snow. I loved the cold damp smell of the air when snow was on the way. I could spend hours watching the big flakes drifting downward, swirling in the slightest breeze. The family backyard had the best sled run in the neighborhood. And, if it snowed enough, school would be called off, and I could escape the clutches of the nuns for a day or two.
I grew up in Cape Girardeau, a town on the Mississippi River in southeastern Missouri. The town was large enough to have its own TV station, a big deal back in those days. The station had a decent meteorologist, and I learned a lot about weather by paying attention to the broadcasts.
When there was the remotest chance of snow, I was glued to the TV set (or to the radio if the next edition of Watching the Weather was hours away). Predicting winter storms was far less accurate then. Spectacular forecasting failures occurred. Snow would fail to materialize, or it would fall everywhere except near home.
A few days ago, as I checked the latest winter storm, I discovered the radar image shown above. It was almost identical to maps that I’d cynically draw when the entire Midwest had snow and closed schools, except for Cape Girardeau where it was business as usual. Yes, I was good at drawing maps as a child. And yes, I could be quite cynical.
The Worst Snow Failure Of All Time occurred on Christmas Eve when I was about ten years old. The TV weatherman breathlessly described the massive snowstorm that was bearing down upon us. The first white Christmas of my young lifetime was virtually guaranteed. The family went to Midnight Mass at the cathedral. I prayed for snow, and prayed some more. I really wanted to sneak outside and watch the wonderful blizzard, but I knew that I’d get in big trouble if I left the pew.
Mass ended, we went outside. No snow. During the wee hours of the morning, I’d wake up and peek out the window. No snow. Santa Claus slipped into the house and left gifts under the tree. No snow. Later in the day, the sun came out. The sky had not yielded a single flake of snow. I didn’t lose my religion that day, but the seeds had been planted. My faith had been shaken.
In future years, there would be white Christmases. My shaky faith was temporarily restored.
How about you? Any dashed hopes from your childhood that you wish to share? This is, of course, an open thread, and you can stray from this topic as you see fit.
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