I moved back to Georgia believing that I hated the snow.
Ok maybe hate is a bit of a strong word. But I definitely was not celebrating when the forecast called for snow in Athens. But then the snow came and I was reminded of why snow days were so magical as a child; they were an excuse to just stop and be. Growing up in the Deep South snow days were exceptionally rare. They meant that everything was closed. No one went anywhere, there was no where to go. The only reason you put on your (completely inappropriate) shoes was to run outside and see how much you could enjoy before the cold and the wet seeped through your (again, inappropriate) layers and you gave up to go inside for hot cocoa.
I remember the first really big snow we had in DC after I moved up. It was SO much snow and I was SO excited, until I realized that I was still expected to be at work the next day, with more than a foot still on the ground and the roads barely cleared (and I use the word “cleared” loosely.) I was appalled. All I could think was, “Why?? Don’t they know about snow days?!”
Turns out it was living in a place that didn’t know how snow days were supposed to work that made me resent the white stuff. And all it took was one good one back down here to remember why I loved them, and what they should be: lazy hours by the fire and warm meals around the table, lots of reading, a never-ending mug of hot chocolate, and a walk around outside to remember the wonder of the snow days from my childhood.