delta snow
They're calling for snow tonight. All the old-timers are falling for it, too. Hook, line, and fuckin' sinker. Hasn't been long enough since the last time it snowed. Oh, it was a while ago. Since the last real snow. Cold enough for long enough to stick and accumulate.
It snowed every other January weekend in Oxford. It almost always stuck. Didn't build much. Didn't stay more than a day or two. No big deal. I didn't really care other than visual stimulation. Why would I care? I never fuckin' left the apartment. No reason to leave. Class. Work. Home. One friend in town. I had a thing for a girl I barely knew and who knew even less about me. I had a chance in that town. I could've shaken restraint. Fear. Loneliness. It just didn't take. I didn't fucking take it. Chose familiar, comforting misery. And I hate myself for that.
But remember the last snow? The last Delta Snow. It was probably in mid-September. They never keep that joint open until the heat finally passes. It's not like you can report a snow-cone stand to the Better Business Bureau. Just like that, no more banana-flavored ice shavings in a styrofoam cup. Always with an eight inch red straw with a spoon on the business end. You can't really scoop anything with it. You can't really suck the shit up with that ramshackled straw either. The whole process was much easier when snow-cones were served on cones. I heard they call them 'sno-balls' down around Jackson. Yeah, it's probably more fitting considering it's a ball of ice in a cup. It's still blasphemy. 'Snow-cone' is the real name.
The real Delta snow is ice. This area just seems to skip the snowy temperature range. Either we're slightly too warm or we're dipping below freezing. Everybody has a story from 1994. Southerners on ice. Some of us still have the t-shirts. "I survived the ICE STORM of '94!" Sure, you did. Everybody did. Everybody except Mr. Donald. I don't remember if he was a casualty of the storm or something else. We had a new janitor at Lockard when school reopened. Mr. Dozier. Nobody seems to remember '95 should've been worse. Its older brother stole all the thunder. All the trees had already been gutted or trimmed. All the rotten telephone poles had been replaced. People had generators. And the weathermen had no interest in being caught with their pants down again. We were prepared if only because there wasn't anything left to damage.
Michael sculpted breasts on the trunk of his car after the last snow. We dug foxholes on either side of Heathman and lobbed grenades. Those of us on the West Bank annihilated the screen on Ms. Barbara's porch once again. She wasn't impressed once again. She must hate snow.
They're giving 80%. No, I heard 60%. I don't know who you watch but he's a goddamn lie. Mr. Bowtie says 80! Old-timers never seem to realize forecasts change with the hour. It's 50-50 every single day every single front. It will or it won't. Fifty-fifty. And never plan on the one you want. Never takes.
It snowed every other January weekend in Oxford. It almost always stuck. Didn't build much. Didn't stay more than a day or two. No big deal. I didn't really care other than visual stimulation. Why would I care? I never fuckin' left the apartment. No reason to leave. Class. Work. Home. One friend in town. I had a thing for a girl I barely knew and who knew even less about me. I had a chance in that town. I could've shaken restraint. Fear. Loneliness. It just didn't take. I didn't fucking take it. Chose familiar, comforting misery. And I hate myself for that.
But remember the last snow? The last Delta Snow. It was probably in mid-September. They never keep that joint open until the heat finally passes. It's not like you can report a snow-cone stand to the Better Business Bureau. Just like that, no more banana-flavored ice shavings in a styrofoam cup. Always with an eight inch red straw with a spoon on the business end. You can't really scoop anything with it. You can't really suck the shit up with that ramshackled straw either. The whole process was much easier when snow-cones were served on cones. I heard they call them 'sno-balls' down around Jackson. Yeah, it's probably more fitting considering it's a ball of ice in a cup. It's still blasphemy. 'Snow-cone' is the real name.
The real Delta snow is ice. This area just seems to skip the snowy temperature range. Either we're slightly too warm or we're dipping below freezing. Everybody has a story from 1994. Southerners on ice. Some of us still have the t-shirts. "I survived the ICE STORM of '94!" Sure, you did. Everybody did. Everybody except Mr. Donald. I don't remember if he was a casualty of the storm or something else. We had a new janitor at Lockard when school reopened. Mr. Dozier. Nobody seems to remember '95 should've been worse. Its older brother stole all the thunder. All the trees had already been gutted or trimmed. All the rotten telephone poles had been replaced. People had generators. And the weathermen had no interest in being caught with their pants down again. We were prepared if only because there wasn't anything left to damage.
Michael sculpted breasts on the trunk of his car after the last snow. We dug foxholes on either side of Heathman and lobbed grenades. Those of us on the West Bank annihilated the screen on Ms. Barbara's porch once again. She wasn't impressed once again. She must hate snow.
They're giving 80%. No, I heard 60%. I don't know who you watch but he's a goddamn lie. Mr. Bowtie says 80! Old-timers never seem to realize forecasts change with the hour. It's 50-50 every single day every single front. It will or it won't. Fifty-fifty. And never plan on the one you want. Never takes.