You learn something quickly when you move to Tennessee; it never snows on Christmas Day. Some years it never snows at all. Which I suppose is a good thing. No one in Tennessee really knows how to drive in the stuff.

Some years ago, our grown children and their families came out to visit at Christmas. The sky was clear; temps were in the sixties. It was more like early fall than Christmas. My daughter, who had come with her family the day before, ran three miles that morning—in her shorts.

The weathermen announced the possibility of a little snow on Christmas day. I laughed that one off as I picked up my son and his family from the airport in Nashville on Christmas Eve. I thought, no way—never happens.

A friend let us use her remote cabin up in the mountains near the North Carolina border. We packed plenty of fuel for the generator (no electricity), and plenty of food to eat. My husband went up in his old Chrysler, escorting our daughter’s family up a very narrow dirt road. The rest of us got there a little before dark. It was cozy, the dinner was delicious and after our three little grandbabies were tucked into bed, the six of us placed all the packages under the tree. We went to bed, dreaming of our upcoming time at Dollywood Theme Park after Christmas.

We woke up the next day to see a white blanket on the ground—two inches. “Holy cow!” I called out. “Finally, snow on Christmas!” It was soft, fluffy and still coming down as the three grandkids woke and saw everything Santa brought them. The oldest grandchild, who was three at the time, had to go out in the snow before breakfast. By then it was three inches. She was absolutely entranced and screamed bloody murder when her daddy took her back in the cabin to thaw.

We started a late breakfast, having all gone out to witness the Christmas day miracle. Still the snow fell. When we cleaned up the breakfast dishes, we began worrying. Four inches. We prepared the turkey for the oven, then debated getting out while the getting was good.

“You know that’s a pretty treacherous road when it rains. I can only imagine what it’s like with snow….”

“How much is it supposed to snow?”

“I don’t have a clue. I don’t think the weathermen did either.”

“If we get stranded….”

It was a quick consensus. We didn’t want to be stuck in a remote cabin with three little children and run out of diesel for the generator. The piles of wrapping paper could be cleaned up later, the barely warm turkey was thrown in a box with all the sides. The old Chrysler was left to be rescued later; we didn’t believe it would make the trip down to the highway. I was doubtful about my Corolla, but we couldn’t put nine people in one winter ready vehicle. So down the half-mile driveway we went. We began our trek a little after noon.

The bottom of the first hill was where we had problems. It was a scary spot even in good times. Me, my son and son-in-law got out and kicked snow out of the way. The others kept the kids somewhat happy in the cars. We ground our way up the second hill, stopping occasionally to kick more snow and ice off the road, and then up the third hill. The snow was still coming down. There was a time or two when we worried that we might have to hike back to the cabin. After two and a half hours, we made it to the logging road that should have been named scrub-board rather than Fingerboard. I wasn’t complaining; it gave us a little more traction. It was almost dark by the time we got down the mountain. When we arrived home our three cats gave us a rousing cheer. They figured they were going to get all those lovely leftovers along with the turkey they were smelling.
We were too tired to cook dinner and decided to go out. Surely someone was still open. After all that’s what they did in the movie A Christmas Story. Unfortunately, the Chinese restaurant had closed early, so we went to the only other open place, a Mexican restaurant. By then, anything would have tasted good.

We went to bed that night in every cranny of our small house still dreaming of Dollywood in the coming days. The cats were our friends; they had something warm to sleep with that night. We continued to experience the capricious nature of weather in Tennessee.

The following day we traveled to our cabin in Townsend. By then the thermometer had taken a nose dive. The road to the cabin, though paved, was coated with ice. No way of getting up that hill. So we stayed in a motel that night, one that didn’t have sufficient heat. The next morning, with a bag of road salt and tenuous nerves, we made it up to the second cabin. It was nice and warm.

Still, we had to admit when we finally got to Dollywood and the temperature dipped even lower, we were together, safe, and having fun.

Oh, and by the way, I have not wished for any white Christmases since then, unless, of course, I am sitting nice and warm in the living room of my own house, watching the snow lay gently on my front lawn.

Susan Kite is the author of five books of fiction and is a member of Author’s Guild of Tennessee. You can find her books at: https://www.amazon.com/default/e/B00J91G0ZU/