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Our mother, Caroline, turned 80 recently, and my twin wanted to throw her a celebration luncheon. Sounds simple enough, really. Get some balloons, create a montage video of her life, order her favorite spice cake and buy a tiara.
But Caroline lives in Massillon, Ohio, and had the misfortune of a winter birth. My twin and I have lived in the South for decades, and while we accept the Southern belief of our disgraced Yankee blood, we consider ourselves to be Southern gals. Meaning we follow the codes of the South. If there is a hint of snow in Tennessee, for example, we shut in with emergency candles and kerosene heaters at the ready, lest a few flakes blow into North Carolina.
Our time in the gentler southern climates has eroded our tough weather exterior. Where, in the South, the tall tales focus on giant fish or temperatures so hot that sunglasses melt to dashboards, in the North, the stories center on snow.
All Northern children, for example, tied themselves together with hand-braided rope to walk to the bus stop, lest they strayed into the snowdrifts that towered above them to become one of the mythical ice sculptures that haunt the neighborhood. We all know someone who was temporarily blinded by snow glare, and have at least one relative who lived the Great Blizzard of a Distant Year whose entire house disappeared under feet of heavy snow. It took three weeks to dig him out. He drank melted snow to stave off dehydration and tore at trail baloney (a Northern staple) for nourishment.
So, as we prepared for our sojourn north, we kept a wary eye on the weather predictions. “This looks worrisome,” my sister told me while weather watching. “It’s supposed to snow the day before we arrive.”
We knew what this meant. We were driving into a potential disaster. And it was going to be cold – the northern kind of cold, where temperatures rest comfortably in the negative position.
This meant we would have to pack heavily, something my fashion-forward sister dislikes. “Look at this extra stuff we have to take,” she said the day before our departure. We surveyed the pile of coats, hats, scarves, gloves and fleece lined stockings on her bed. It felt ridiculous against the happy blue sky, with the sun warming her bedroom.
But, like proper Northern girls, we were taught to keep our word and to buck up. I think that’s how Ohio chose its state mascot, the Buckeye. “But it’s 100 degrees below zero. I don’t want to go outside and play,” Ohio children everywhere complained.
“Oh, buck up. My grandfather lived through the Great Blizzard of a Distant Year, and he survived for three weeks with no heat. He had to use snow for a blanket. Now get out there and play, and don’t come back before supper,” Ohio adults everywhere answered.
Our mother was looking forward to her luncheon, and we had promised her it would happen. So, we bucked up and drove through the sleet and snow, white knuckled, and even swerving on occasion as our northern spidey senses had softened in the warm breezes of the South. But we made it, all shivery and red-cheeked walking from the car to her house. After big hugs and cheerful chatter, we flanked her back to the car for the luncheon.
My sister and I, barely visible under our furry hats and giant coats, braced against the freezing wind while our mother wore a delicate short sleeved blouse, and, another Northern staple, the humble windbreaker. And no hat. She was completely unfazed by the alarming temperatures and swirling snow.
Even though the restaurant only served unsweetened ice tea, the luncheon was a lovely success, and our mother was soon nestled back into her favorite chair at home, full of spice cake and lasting memories. My twin and I booked it out of there the next morning at just after 3 a.m. We hadn’t discussed it the night before, but were both feeling the circadian tug, pulling us out of the foreign land of Stark County – another on-the-nose name in
Ohio, and into the sweet, warm embrace of North Carolina.
When we called our mother upon our safe return, she was sitting in her chair, watching the snow accumulate. Through an open window.
Abigail Blythe Batton is a staff correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. Her column runs every other week. Email her at ablythebatton@gmail.com or leave a message at 837-5122.