Just like the ones I used to know.
This is my third White Christmas in the South. Probably I’ve had one or two in the north, but most of that would be leftover snow, if I had to guess. They are infrequent enough here to be worth remembering, though.
For the record: Christmas as a 1-year-old, a 13-year-old and, now, at 34.
You want animals in snow? We’ve got animals in snow.
This was the perfect White Christmas. Pretty in the yard, dry on the road. The snow itself was a very white rain, really. As wet as possible, it melts if you look at it hard. For all of those readers not from the southeast, that’s normal here.
I go to Waffle House for a late bite on Christmas night. Mostly just to satisfy my curiosity about who goes to Waffle House on Christmas night. Besides me, I mean.
After several years of field study I can confidently observe this isn’t the regular Waffle House crowd. So where is the regular Waffle House crowd?
This particular store was packed after everyone got tired of crinkly paper, leftovers and family. People were waiting for seats when I arrived. That’s a condition usually reserved for after that other holy event in the South — high school football.
Fine Christmas all around, just dandy. Hope yours was even better!
