Frozen streets and more moments that mattered

In Nebraska, winter doesn’t knock. It moves in, makes itself at home, and expects you to adapt. An inch of ice gets our attention, but we’ve been there, done that so many times it’s just another day in January.
In Texas, however, where they say everything is bigger, an inch of ice is, in fact, a much bigger deal. Paula and I learned about the Big Texas Chill in person last week, which in our case came with a wonderful silver lining.
The contrast was impossible to miss. When Mother Nature applies a layer of ice to the January landscape here in the Heartland, it’s an inconvenience we simply deal with. We slow down, stay off the roads if possible, put down some salt or sand in high-traffic areas, and keep an eye on the forecast to see what lies ahead.
In Texas, a solid layer of ice, reportedly the worst storm of its kind in years, seemed to quite literally freeze everything in place. As I mentioned last week, we ventured south to visit our new granddaughter (and her parents), choosing to drive because it takes just as much time by land or air once you factor in commutes to airports in Omaha and Austin, security checks, layovers, etc. What we didn’t factor in was the difference in winter perspectives.
In the Lone Star State, known for its go-big hospitality, ice and snow are treated like an unexpected guest who didn’t understand the rules. Frozen streets and sidewalks remain untouched, assuming the unwanted mess will melt on its own within hours. There is also a noticeable silence in the wake of a storm, different from the peaceful calm we know back home after the moisture has stopped falling. There were no trucks spreading sand or salt, no snowplows scraping roads, and absolutely no snowblowers humming along neighborhood sidewalks and driveways.
With school canceled that Monday, I half-expected to see kids out making money the old-fashioned way, trading manpower for cash like many of us once did. That early lesson in work ethic and entrepreneurship isn’t available down south, as most homeowners don’t even own a snow shovel.
Driving home proved to be more of an adventure than expected, even after waiting two extra days. The interstate was fine between the lines through Texas and Oklahoma, but exit ramps hadn’t been cleared or even treated, creating conditions that would have been inexcusable just a few hours north. Grabbing a bite to eat in Norman (yes, we ventured behind enemy lines in Soonerville) meant navigating three-day-old, 10-inch layers of snow on city streets and parking lots. That’s an adventure when the terrain is unfamiliar, especially for OU natives.
With an 11-hour drive to observe and contemplate, it struck me that where we live quietly shapes who we are: our habits, our expectations, even our definition of “normal.” Nebraska prepares for Old Man Winter because it has to. Texas and Oklahoma simply don’t, not because of failure, but because they rarely need to. 
By Monday morning, part of me was thinking about getting back to work, about how back home the roads would already be clearing and life would be inching forward. But in Texas, the world stayed still, and that turned out to be a gift. While streets remained frozen and schools stayed closed, we were exactly where we needed to be, holding our new granddaughter and watching new life begin while everything else waited.
An inch of ice may shut down Texas, but a newborn has a way of stopping time anywhere, even for a couple of Nebraskans who thought they understood winter pretty well. Lesson learned, on several fronts.
KURT JOHNSON can be reached at kjohnson@ hamilton.net