The January snow totals, and accompanying deep freeze, have left me with three thoughts:
Global warming is still a ways off.
Even while sitting in a private box and wearing a knit hat to watch her boyfriend catch passes in subzero temperatures, Taylor Swift is still capable of looking bored and miserable.
In winter, never fly to a city where the residents say “It ‘literally’ never snows here.”
While I remain entrenched in my beloved Chicago, despite its high crime rate, underachieving sports team and, yes, bone-chilling winters, friends are fleeing the city in droves for warmer environs. Florida and Arizona remain the most popular destinations, but those looking for something resembling seasonal changes are opting for communities in North Carolina, Virginia and Tennessee. When grilled about their choices, most reference idyllic mountain ranges, low cost of living and friendly residents. Chicago has none of these, by the way, although yesterday I did meet a young guy who offered me his seat on the bus.
Are you sure you want to toss that snow scraper?
Then, when the conversation turns to weather, their tones grow even more excited, as they launch into tales of new lives void of snow blowers, ice scrapers and sidewalk salt. None of those items made it into their moving vans. Why should they?
“It literally never snows here,” said a family member who relocated to a lakefront community outside Knoxville, Tennessee. With mountain views.
Recent experience has left me convinced that “basically never snows” or “literally never snows” means, “It does snow here and, when this occurs, we have absolutely no idea what to do.”
Witness a flight from Charlotte, North Carolina, (thankfully, void of snow) to McGhee Tyson Airport in Knoxville on Jan. 16, where three inches of ice encrusted flakes — the kind that don’t just fall harmlessly off your car windows when you slam the door — coated everything from runways to vehicles left in long-term parking lots.
Please know I am not about to bore you, my loyal readers, with events that accompanied the flight, for I know you are not interested. Nothing annoys me more than listening to someone recount, in excruciating, blow-by-blow detail, their “flight from hell” that included a lengthy delay, a last-minute gate change and the dreaded “maintenance is coming aboard” announcement. We’ve all been there, and your story is no different than mine.
The one exception might be the 1972 incident involving a Uruguayan rugby team whose plane crashed in the Andes mountains. Nobody found the plane for 10 weeks and those who survived did so by eating the bodies of the dead passengers.
THAT’S a good story. Keep talking.
This Job Requires “Literally” No Skills
Upon landing in Knoxville, the pilot informed us that, “due to the snow,” only two gates were open and, naturally, both were occupied. While waiting more than two and a half hours to disembark, I looked outside to see a bunch of tarmac workers doing, well, very little. None carried a shovel or operated a snowblower, for I don’t believe either exist in Knoxville, Tennessee.
Baggage claim was equally chaotic; luggage littered the floor, while owners bumped from canceled flights frantically searched for bags that, somehow, arrived before they did. Meanwhile, every curse word I’ve ever heard, and some I hadn’t, was being uttered by travelers realizing no taxis or rideshare vehicles were braving treacherous, unplowed roads at midnight.
“We just can’t handle snow here,” said a police officer, as if this were a perfectly acceptable excuse for the carnage unfolding in front of him. “Plus, we’re short staffed.”
Seriously? The airport is teetering on the brink of shutdown and employees are choosing to take mental health days?
Perhaps it’s time for states who feel winter doesn’t apply to them change their thinking. Invest in a plow or two, and don’t let some dude in Nashville borrow it. Ice scrapers in cars are mandatory; start a GoFundMe campaign if you must. Force everyone with a driver’s license to take classes detailing how to drive on snow and ice. Keep some salt in the garage between your golf clubs and your fishing poles.
Take it from a Chicagoan. It’s literally not that difficult.
