Dixie Snow

This story of dixie snow is more than childhood memory—it’s a reminder that God often meets us in the coldest moments with unexpected warmth, mercy, and grace. Even in life’s frostiest seasons, He has a way of making all things new.

 

A true story of snowy weather, grandmotherly justice, and the spoon that didn’t make it.

I remember the day the world turned white—blinding, glorious, unrelenting white.

My sister and I were staying with my grandmother, Lady, during what the local weathermen breathlessly called “the storm of the century,” which in the South meant anything more than three flakes sticking to a pine branch.

Usually, when we visited Lady, we were tolerated at best and mostly in the way as she went about her day. But that day was different. That day we weren’t just tolerated; we were trapped together in a frosty purgatory, snow piled high enough to make us feel like we were in an arctic prison, albeit one with better cornbread.

In the South, snow is usually a joke. People tend to lose their minds at the first dusting, stripping the Piggly Wiggly bare of milk and Wonder Bread like they’re preparing for nuclear winter. But this wasn’t your average, close-the-schools-for-half-an-inch kind of snow. No, this was a full-blown, shut-down-the-world, 10-to-12-inch snow apocalypse. It was practically Canada.

The Southern Tradition of Snow Cream and Family Lessons

From the moment the first flakes fell, we started pestering Lady to make snow cream. Snow cream, for those who don’t know, is a rare delicacy in the South, somewhere between manna from Heaven and unicorn tears. Lady was not amused at our nagging. She grumbled and muttered, “Y’all don’t let up, do you?” but eventually handed us a Tupperware bowl and a big serving spoon, giving explicit instructions: “Go get me the clean snow. None of that nasty stuff from the ground, and don’t you dare bring me anything yella!”

So we bundled up, looking like two miniature Michelin men, and trudged into the backyard, where the snow came up to our knees and whispered underfoot. We scooped what we could, turned red in the face, and staggered back inside like Arctic explorers returning from the Pole.

In the kitchen, Lady worked her magic, stirring that snow with a kind of quiet reverence. Sweetened condensed milk, sugar, and a splash of vanilla—just enough to make your tongue dance. Then she handed us each a bowl and said, with the solemnity fit for a state dinner, “Snow cream.”

We ate it as if we’d never eat again.

The Lost Spoon and the Storm That Tested Us

But joy never comes free. Somewhere out there in the snowdrifts, deep beneath the powder and promises, lay Lady’s good serving spoon. We’d used it to scrape the best snow off an old patio table, and now it was gone, buried like long forgotten treasure with no map.

Lady was not pleased. “Find my spoon, or you’ll never see another snow day.”

So back out we went, digging and flailing like blind badgers. We combed that yard with the desperation of two kids who knew their lives hung in the balance. But it was no use. The spoon had vanished into white oblivion like a sinner in revival.

We came back inside, wet and empty-handed. She listened to our sad, little saga and then pronounced our sentence: no TV, no second helpings, and “you’ll wash dishes ‘til the Lord comes back.”

And we did.

What the Thaw Revealed—and What Grace Still Reveals Today

Weeks later, the snow melted and the serving spoon re-emerged in the thaw, rusted stiff and crooked as a dog’s hind leg. It had died a hero’s death.

But what I remember that day isn’t the punishment. I remember the wonder of it—how the snow turned our dull, little world into something bright and clean. I remember the warmth of Lady’s kitchen, the hum of the heater, the scrape of spoon against bowl, and a stern but caring woman who loved us too much to let us grow up useless.

Funny how the coldest days often bring the deepest warmth.

And now, when life bears down hard, I think of that long-ago snow and the hands that stirred mercy into sweetness. We never did find redemption in that old spoon. But I’ve found grace often shows up like that snow: quiet, uninvited, and beautiful beyond all reason. It covers everything, our failures, our sins, our rusted-out places, and somehow makes them white as wool.

Because that’s what God does.

He covers, restores, and makes all things new.

Even in the harshest of seasons.

Even now.

Especially now.

Especially in us.

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