It’s so snowy in Vermont that when it snows south of Washington, D.C., I’m tempted to scoff. Those few inches aren’t very intimidating,  even if they do close schools and cause grocery stores to sell out of milk. And it’s usually not that cold, relatively speaking.

But you know what? Some of my best memories of winter weather are from Charlotte. It was less extreme, but so rare that it felt like a holiday every time. (Plus, it seems a lot more extreme when nobody has warm enough clothes or snow tires.)

I’ve heard from both my brother and sister tonight, reporting that it’s snowing far to the south. It reminds me of a snowy, icy night I had with them an awfully long time ago.

We lived at the top of a shallow hill, and one winter, the road iced over. My parents took us sledding on the street that night. Let me repeat. We were in the middle of the street. On a sled. At night. Bedtime be damned! That is a walk on the wild side, folks.

We were using an old-fashioned sled, the kind with runners. We were still young enough that birth order was related to size, so my sister lay down first, I lay down on top of her, and my brother stretched out on top. My dad gave us a push, and we skimmed headfirst down that dark street. It felt like a perfectly smooth run that went on for ages. I have no memory of what happened at the bottom of the hill, only the feeling that we were all but airborne on the way down.

Sledding with my siblings on a clear winter night. Literally unforgettable. Remember that tonight you southern friends. Get out there.