The great American snow down
Growing up on the southern shore of the Newport River was a great experience. But the “where” is not as important as with the “who” you grow up with. My father, Rudolph Mason, was a Down Easter with the region’s signature dry sense of humor. As a redhead, it was his job to irritate and tease little girls who thought they knew it all.
One cold, dark night when I was 10, I flipped on the porch light to call our cat indoors. To my delight, it was lightly snowing. Snow in Carteret County, as we all know from an early age, paralyzes transportation and, more importantly, closes schools. I gleefully shouted to the entire household, “It’s snowing! It’s snowing! It’s snowing!”
Everyone ran to the door to evaluate my meteorological assessment. Mother said, “It’s a very wet snow.” Dad said, “That’s not snow at all. They’re just picking geese to South River!”
Try as I might, no amount of arguing could dissuade my father that it was not someone picking geese to South River, but it was truly snowing. I’m sure he was so pleased with himself for keeping me riled up that night.
To delight in and remember that moment, every time it snows, someone in the family will say, “That’s not snow, they’re just picking geese to South River!” It’s our way of saying, “We love you Daddy and we miss you.”
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