Snow in North Carolina

I hope you know that to my way of thinking, one of the pleasant benefits of moving to the South is that there is seldom any snow, and therefore seldom any snow to shovel. I want you to understand this now, so that when I begin to curse and foam at the mouth later on, there won't be any misunderstanding as to what I'm on about.

Now, Mrs. Wiggy is of a different persuasion than I am vis-a-vis frozen precipitation. You see, she was born and raised in New York, where they get a lot of the stuff. Having lived in New Mexico for five or six years prior to us meeting up and getting hitched, she had come to associate snow with all things fondly remembered. She hoped for snow, she pined for snow, she thought snow. And although it seldom snows in Albuquerque, New Mexico, it does sometimes dump a few inches. We lived in an apartment then, and frankly, I didn't care much if it snowed - as long as Mrs. Wiggy was happy and I didn't have to shovel it. "Yes, dear, pretty snow. Look at the nice man with the snowblower, he seems happy. Where's my coffee?"

And then we up and moved to North Carolina. Hot and humid, that's their M.O. around here. Snow? Nah. Ice storms, maybe, couple of times in the past ten years. Power out all over, tree limbs down, that sort of stuff. Not big on snow - at least not in the Triangle. The western side, sure. Asheville regularly gets a ton of snow, but they're snuggled into the heart of the Smoky mountains, so they pretty much deserve it. Here east of Raleigh, we're mostly snowless.

And so it was on Christmas Day - a fine day, a fine Christmas, but not a speck of snow anywhere. Not even cold enough, which was just fine with me. Not Mrs. Wiggy. She wanted a White Christmas. I wanted a teenage Swedish cheerleader, but like the man said, we can't always get what we want, eh? Ah, her relatives back home had to tell her how nice it was with a foot and a half of white stuff on the ground, more falling by the minute. My relatives in Wisconsin and North Dakota got into the act; "Ya, sure, 20 degrees below zero, dont'cha know?" I just grinned into my Bailey's and coffee - no snow here, that's for sure. And ol' Wiggy is happy fat bastard.

And so, we woke up this morning to the sound of plastic rattling. Sounded like one of the cats had found a stray piece of cellophane wrapping from Christmas and was making a joyful noise unto the Lord. Ah, but it would not stop. It went on and on. Finally, Mrs. Wiggy got up to take said piece of trash away from bad kitty. But you know what it was, don't you? Yes. Ugly, ugly, snow. Lots o' snow. Banging against the windows. Snow up the wazoo. Snow in North Freakin' Carolina. The day AFTER Christmas. Seems a danged old snow storm had gotten lost on the way to New York and decided to visit some friends below the Mason-Dixon line. Stupid snow storm.

Oh well, I thought. This isn't so bad. There's just enough of it - the TV news critters are telling people to stay away from the 50% off After Christmas Sales, which Mrs. Wiggy had been planning to attend with gusto in one hand and our credit cards in the other. Ah, perhaps this snow has a bright side! The TV news critters said to stay inside, it was going to pass over us very quickly - heading for New York where it belonged. Be gone by noon. And our credit may remain intact, more or less. What's not to like?

It is a wonder that more TV weather people aren't killed outright, even skinned and hung on barns as a grim reminder of how not nice it is to lie to people like that. The snow came down in buckets - about 4 inches where we're at. And it alternated from snow to ice crystals to sleet to a kind of freezing drizzle. Very nice. The weatherman said that we needed to shovel our walks and driveways, and brush the snow off of our cars - the storm was going to squat on us for awhile, and then freeze solid. Tomorrow, everything will be block of solid ice. Oh, now isn't that special!

So, since we moved here in June or thereabouts, and we have never owned a house before, we've never owned a snow shovel or anything like that. So off we go to the local hardware store to purchase a snow shovel and some weird chemicals to spinkle on the sidewalks like a magic ward against slip-n-fall lawsuits. We obtain same. Gave Mrs. Wiggy an opportunity to try the Jeep Cherokee with four-wheel-drive engaged - much fun was had by all.

Ah, but with the return home, the fun ended for your hero Wiggy. Yer Wigster has fortunately been off the cigarettes for nearly six months, or let me tell you, my friends, he would have expired halfway through this rubbish.

Which brings me to another point. Never having owned a house before, I had no idea where to stop shoveling the sidewalk. I mean, sure I could just stop more or less where my property line ends. I mean, there is no real reason for me to shovel someone else's walk, right? Just shovel like I would mow my lawn - up to the edge of mine, and the neighbor does his, right? Hmmm.

But wait. Doesn't that seem a bit un-neighborly? Even a tiny bit hostile? I mean, it's kind of like saying to the poor fellow, "Hey jerk-wad! Get out here and shovel your freaking walk! Now that I've done mine, you look like a fat lazy bastard for not doing yours, so get to it!" Yes, that's kind of how it feels. And it feels very selfish, too.

But hang on, if I just shovel mine and then shovel a bit of his into the bargain, where do I stop? A couple of feet? Why not just do the whole thing? And of course, if I do the whole thing, isn't that like me telling the world that I think my neighbor's got no testicles? He's not a man, I have to shovel his damned sidewalk for him. Pay no attention to that guy, he's got no gonads! What if his wife is watching? And she's like "Hey! That asshole next door is shoveling our walk! Who does he think he is? Does he think you're not man enough to do it yourself? What, is he trying to make fun of you? Get out there and punch him in his fat face, the bastard!"

Ah, to hell with it. I shoveled the walk halfway. Let him keep one testicle, anyway. Poor bastard, with a wife like that, he needs all the help he can get.

So, I'm out there shoveling away, and my lower back is on fire and I'm getting blisters for God's sake. This is a nice Christmas gift. I'll be popping Advil like they were Pez candy and drinking Jack Daniels to sooth my aching back, and I'm supposed to agree with my wife that snow is dandy thing altogether.

White Chistmas, my fat ass. I see that Santa Claus character, he's getting debagged and radished, on the spot.

Keep yer stick on the ice,

Wiggy