Give Snow a Chance
When I left Arkansas for the west coast of Michigan, where the snows are deep and winter storms are plentiful, some folks thought I was off my rocker. After a recent blizzard blew across the Midwest to the east coast, a very dear Berryville friend texted me to see how I’d fared. I told him I now live in New York—because the wind was that fierce. But the truth is, I’m still in Michigan, delighting in the snow.
This evening Tootsie the Wonder Dog and I took a walk, while thick snowflakes gently drifted eastward from Lake Michigan, which is merely blocks from home. A thick blanket of snow caressed my boot-clad ankles, and the near silence was serene. In fact, it was almost… well… religious—for lack of a better word. (Of course, the serenity might have been increased by my down filled hood and hearing impairment, but it was heavenly nonetheless.)
Toots scampered exuberantly, often sticking her head under the snow, sniffing for edible treasures. I kept a relaxed but steady pace, my mind acutely conscious of the beauty engulfing me. Then we both stopped, having noticed a pair of humans cross-country skiing along the golf course that terminates the street upon which we live. Toots was absolutely enchanted and wanted to investigate—but alas, a chain-link fence kept us from approaching them.
I guess I was enchanted, too. I’ve never been on cross-country skis—perhaps I’ll add that to my bucket list. And as Toots and I stood and watched the skiers glide by, I wondered why there are people called “snowbirds.”
I’ve known snowbirds. They are generally retired people who live in the north during the summer and fall, but depart when winter hits (or sometimes, after the winter-wonderland holidays) and head south, to places where they won’t be threatened by snow on their sidewalks or their windshields. When I lived in the South, I thought I understood their plight. But now that I am wintering in the north, I no longer understand. If there is heaven on earth, this is surely a part of it.
But let me pause in the retelling of this revelation to make something clear. I am retired. I don’t have to drive to work in the snow. I can wait for a sunny day to motor to the store or the post office. I get to put on my down coat and Canadian ultra-warm waterproof boots with built in collapsible cleats and stroll down the street whenever I feel like it. If I had a job, I might be annoyed by all the snow standing between me and my place of employment. So why is it that these snowbirds wait for retirement to drive south for the winter? It would make much more sense to spend one’s working years in snowless regions and retire in the glorious 4-season Yankeeland.
I moved here primarily for the beach. I love sand, waves, surfers, boats, water birds, and leaping fish. I was pretty sure I could tolerate winter—having lived in the north in my youth. But I had no idea I’d fall in love with the snow. Or that I’d find tromping through its accumulation akin to walking in the sand—except that I can’t take off my shoes. (And I didn’t know Tootsie would love it. Perhaps she’s descended from some arctic breed.)
If you happen to be on the brink of retirement—or if you’re in the middle of it and seeking something new—don’t let snowbird philosophy confuse you. Give snow a chance.