Just Cyd.

Snow.
Changes people
Haters heat up, tempers flaring, so hot you'd think they could melt the offending freeze with their gaze of rage.
Lovers embrace it, hunker down, soup pots simmering, snowmen and sleds surrounded by laughter, smiles and mismatched woolens.
Middle ground, if it exists, is slim and tenuous.
"We need the cold and snow to appreciate the beauty of spring," I'll chirp, Pollyanna in a parka.

Snow gives the landscape makeover - highlights the contours, brings out the ridges and things normally blended together or hidden in foliage, changes disorienting at turnpike speed, new as it is, trying to reconcile what is NOW with what was last week.
Hillsides of barren trees become pale skin under thinning hair, The World's ugliest dog in landscape form.
Cheekbones teased out of an ordinary face, A drag queen's first layer before the pastels of spring come into play, the palette saved for special occasions. What is Appalachia's drag name?

But lines blur. "Whose lane is this anyway?" is not as funny as a similarly-named TV show. The show I drove down to see was canceled before my departure, the musician notifying me personally, hours before it was made public, wanting to spare me the expense of the trip. The hotels paid for, I forge ahead, with a tease of an alternate idea. Their Plan B was canceled by the next morning, three-fourths of the band not willing to take the risks of doing battle with Mother Nature. The Triangle itself all but shut down, save one show I didn't know about until just hours prior. Do I risk it? I don't know the laws. Does "winter storm warning" in NC translate to "level 3 snow emergency" in OH and all that comes with it? I know what I'm doing out there; does anyone else?

I do, and the risk is worth the reward. I'm greeted as he glides to the stage, a side hug and a kiss on the cheek, rough stubble lingering, mine alone to enjoy. He talked to me mid show, from the stage, shouting out our shared home state, later asking me to confirm the oft-missed Canal Street Tavern. Our little inside joke. Lifelong friends on our second meeting. His post-show glow and sincere thanks that I made the effort. The moderately well-attended show should have been a sell-out. this time it's Mother Nature that is the woman who ruins everything.

Carefully penguin-walking my way back to the parking deck, the pt pt pt of the icy pellets as they hit earth, still warm enough to remain slush on the ground. Echoes of laughter and flashes of light as college kids do battle with snow balls and cell phones, trying to capture the moment for the 'tok, or 'gram, or maybe mom and dad back home. I chuckle with them under my hoodie, hoping they remember to save a copy to their brain, to recall years later. Google Maps directs me through campus, down residential streets and past buildings I've heard of but not yet viewed. Students are out en masse, just another Friday night at UNC Chapel Hill. Rain with teeth can't stop the promise of a good time. A collection of snow-people chill on the ledge of a historic building/tower that I cannot find in the full, lush summer street view of Google Maps.

By Ohio standards, the highway is fine: slushy, sloppy, but lines are mostly clear, and other drivers match my reduced-for-survival speed of 40 MPH. Rover's new Coopers serve us well. The plows aren't out, but there's no point in plowing until it stops. By the next morning, the only signs of the storm are the plow-deposited piles, and the frustrated hotel guests trying to re-book canceled flights. Did I dream it all? my still-damp hoodie confirms my remembered weather, and the two different event posters satisfy my other questions. By the time I venture forth post nap, well past noon, my pink plaid flannel is all I require.

The blue sky of the drive home belies the prior storms, until Greensboro and points northwest show accumulation retained, the power of elevation. The sun spotlights the frozen tears streaming through the rocky borders of my path. Ramrod straight, as gravity demands, their sparkle and spikes adding yet another facet to the face of the path I thought I knew so well. The icicle tears spring forth from hidden places; what else am I not seeing? I shudder, collect myself, and sing louder, drowning out the voices of all that must be faced when i return to what still counts as home.