The Way is Shut

At the time of this writing, I am shoring myself up—body and mind—to the upcoming ice storm. I have a feeling this is a widespread event; my friend in Dallas has stocked up on rotisserie chicken, and a friend in Tulsa has planned a “spa day” for herself at home in anticipation of being snowed in. Over in L.A., another friend is bracing for mid-70s weather by zipping up her light jacket.

Schools in my area are canceled for Monday in part because Mississippians are bad at driving on ice. At the first mention of it, we pinball off the guardrails. We’ve been told to turn the wheel in the direction of the skid, but we refuse to believe such a counterintuitive thing. How can you ask us to not hit the brakes when we so desperately want to stop? To turn towards the place we don’t want to go? We decided at some point in Mississippi’s tense history with cold weather and automobiles that it’s better to panic and flail. And each generation has bequeathed that idea to the next with the same implacable spirit that hands down our good manners.

The last time this area experienced such a cold spell was in 2021. It rained and then froze and then rained and then froze, and long after the coldest temps hit, we were still trapped in our houses.

Photo credit: Anna Henry

It made for good sledding weather. I watched my neighbor coast down the street on a hardshell suitcase, which I’m sure ruined it. As if there were no longer a need for suitcases because we were all permanent prisoners of the ice.

I remember that ice storm as a time when I made waffles. Countless waffles. Other people had rightly stocked up on bottled water, but I bought boxes of instant waffle mix and not much else. I dragged my favorite armchair into the TV room and curled up under a blanket with my laptop and just kept a waffle constantly within arm’s reach, like a soft, delicious gun in a holster.

Also during that ice storm, a friend and I decided to try going for a walk, which ended up being one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. The grass was just as slick as the streets. My friend slipped on the ice four times during our journey and each time the contents of her pockets went flying. She’d fall and then we’d both waddle around on the ice to fetch her lipgloss and keys and handful of change. Each time we had to take off our gloves in order to grasp the fine, cold edges of the coins with our nails. Then we’d set off again. And then she’d fall again. The same routine, so noticeably slow in contrast to the fast, hard crashing to the ground. Like Charlie Brown having to methodically dress every time he’d pitch a baseball to Lucy and the speed of the ball flying past him would somehow knock all of his clothes off. In my friend’s case, it was like gravity took her by the feet and shook her upside down until her pockets were empty. It all amounted to a very violent walk to a coffee shop that wasn’t even open when we finally got there.

Those days of relentless ice were also days of miracles. Despite the horrible condition of our water system in Jackson and the fact that my house is old and outfitted with the original entrails of galvanized pipes, we never lost water or power. We closed the doors to the back half of the house and preserved warmth in one or two rooms in the front half, as the original owners would’ve done seventy years ago. Like a sort of homage to the practicality of people long gone.

A light, freezing rain has just begun. It floats around outside my window like TV static. I’m reminded of my friend and the supernova of her pockets. That friend is in a better place now. She’s in L.A. Wrapped in the loving arms of her light jacket.