SNOW GLOW—
RARE GULF COAST DELIGHT

By Dolly Haik-Adams Berthelot © 2025

In this era of unpredictability, chaos, and anxiety, it is worth snatching and celebrating rare positive surprises and moments of joy. Countless Southerners across the Gulf Coast were blessed by both January 21-22, 2025, and I am forever grateful.

Rarity matters. But survival is paramount, and effort does count.

Snowstorms likely bring dread or shrugs of resignation in many parts of the US or the world, places where snowfalls are common and snowstorms part of life, much like thunderstorms are here in Pensacola, Florida. Rationally, I know snow and ice can wreak havoc, even more so to the unfamiliar. Accidents are common, car crashes to falls. Power is lost. People freeze. Property is damaged.

Years ago dear friends outside Boston had the kitchen of their beautiful old Tudor home crash in from the weight of a snowdrift. My sister in our home town of Bogalusa, LA even lost her pool screen to a rare snow pile crash through in 2017. I recognize not everyone shrivers with thrills at snowstorms.

Living in Plattsburgh NY near the turn of the millennium, my husband Ron and I heard horrible tales of the extraordinary 1998 ice storm that had some residents burning everything they could to keep warm, sometimes including family heirlooms—and that far north corner of the US is certainly well acquainted with ice and snow, and well adapted to it. Unlike much of the South. Ron and I also lived in snowy Germany in the early 70s and in Knoxville during a rare and disruptive early 1977 snow and hard freeze that took my water away for nearly a month! So I get that my glee might seem suspect or silly to some.

I actually drove in snow only once, in the late ‘60s when Oak Ridge High (I was a teacher, not a student then) and other schools let out early from a surprise snow. My cherry red Plymouth Barracuda slid uncontrollably and terrifyingly horizontal on the icy roads, I barely made it home intact and swore not to do that again. I haven’t. Fortunately I had a husband who managed such roads fine in all conditions all over the world, and I was in those more treacherous snow times mostly a writer who could happily stay home when necessary.

SO, I’m not a total snow novice, but I haven’t experienced any to speak of since the mid-1980s, on a multi-month camper van trip, when our then family of three gallivanted through the western US and Canada. Our son, nearing eight, had lived only in Pensacola, and never seen a snowflake. In August, on top of Rocky Mountains National Park, that beautiful white stuff suddenly drifted down on us. Destin and I danced exuberantly, arms and tongues catching flakes. I was then 40 and wrote a Mother’s poem about it.

Now 80-years-old, a widow living alone in a bayside high rise condo of mostly fellow “mature adults,” I felt similar delight January 21 and 22 of 2025. First, the anticipation of a real snowfall, a serious snowfall, not only in Pensacola, where I had seen barely any during nearly half century of home ownership and at least part-time living, but in much of the Gulf Coast from Texas and Louisiana to NW Florida, where Pensacola sits little more than an hour east of Mobile and three hours east of New Orleans. Five inches of snow was predicted here for Tuesday Jan. 21, and I couldn’t wait! I was a child again, looking forward to Christmas—and Santa didn’t disappoint!

By mid-day Tuesday, the prevailing grayness was Ok, because we welcomed snow drifting down onto Pensacola Bay, and onto our vast Southside green lawn and large turquoise pool, and into my fourth floor balcony, first sprinkling then covering the 10-foot top of my turquoise, goldenrod, and salmon-painted table and companion vintage church pew. It was fun to watch the snow first dust then camouflage, then pile up on our strange circle of “lawn art,” a concrete walkway probably built in 1974 along with the 12-story Riviera building. Some residents fondly call that circle our “helicopter pad” (though only birds land there).

My longstanding close friend Lisa Newcomb is a Northern transplant, like many here, but has been in the South long enough to share my glee at this milestone snow. Lisa and I bundled up and braved the snowy winds to explore and photograph a bit of Riviera’s northern grounds. Grounds lush with live oaks, camellias, magnolias, citrus, and other trees and bushes as well as outdoor seating, parking lots, and a multi-level garage to stash cars.

We then shared a warm crab cake lunch in Lisa’s 8th floor unit, and belatedly exchanged gifts we’d been holding for weeks, while she was out of state. The serendipitous benefit of our delay was getting to celebrate an actual White Christmas! (And White Hanukkah, since Lisa is of Jewish heritage.)

Heading back outside for a bit, we briefly lured out a more reluctant elder resident, a lifelong Pensacolan. Pensacola is increasingly made up of people from elsewhere, many who have had quite enough of snow, thank you very much.

Some of my large scattered family and a few friends texted long into the night about the miracle we were witnessing across the Gulf Coast. Several marveled at the strange light outside until 9:30-10:30 pm, an “almost daylight light.” January is usually dark here after 5 or 6 pm, so apparently snow brings powerful reflections.

I actually saw lovely snow falling in my closed eyes as I drifted off to sleep.

… And I woke to thick blankets of even more glorious white, 7-10 inches reported in different areas of Escambia and Santa Rosa Counties, a historic snowfall for this region and all of Florida. The previous record was a mere 3”—in 1885! The area’s famous sugary beaches on the Gulf look quite similar to snow, even in summer’s 90s heat.

Jan. 22 was luminous, sunshine pouring diamonds across the bay, right into the pool below my balcony. Up to 9” of snow covered lounge chairs, tables, bushes, and the magic “helicopter circle,” all visible through my large glass doors. That side would melt first, and began doing so too soon.

I had awakened wanting to make a small snow person on the Northside. Was that possible when I had mobility and stamina limitations even on the best days, and this little project required ably managing snow and ice? I resolved to try.

All our regular staff, including round-the-clock door people, were asked to stay home off the streets, as were most of Pensacola. Many streets and bridges and most businesses, schools, offices, etc. were closed several days, appointments cancelled.

Still, accidents could happen. The owner serving as volunteer doorman was nervous for me to even step outside onto the icy covered entry walkway, much less broach the thick snow and ice beyond. But I had brought down my iPhone camera and a plastic bag of accoutrements for the tiny tabletop snow person I envisioned: purple grapes for eyes, a mini carrot nose, a slice of red apple mouth, some gold covered Hanukkah coin chocolates for buttons, and three leftover candy canes. One for each arm and possibly one tucked in the “mouth.” Also some quickly grabbed Mardi Gras beads for a festive touch. It was Mardi Gras season, and that’s a big deal throughout this Gulf Coast. My old hammered aluminum tray could be a base.

I had limited snowman-making knowledge or resources, but that all seemed feasible—if I could only get a few yards without breaking my neck. Each step would be a real challenge. Realizing my determination, volunteer doorwoman suggested a small buggy might help, so I tried that. It was more trouble than help, would barely budge over the snow-and ice-covered condo entry road, but halfway across, I wouldn’t go back and couldn’t leave it to block any traffic that possibly could come in. So I dragged rather than pushed the buggy with me to the other side of the road. It was obvious the table I’d hoped for was much too far away to consider, and stooping to build on the ground was unthinkable. Unfortunately, I would have to get up again!

I spotted a wooden trash receptacle only yards away, thickly covered with snow, of course. Gingerly I managed to get there, place the tray over the hole, and try to make a snowball for the head. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell I could make a snowball out of that snow, much less a snowman, even a small one! I had vaguely heard the quality of snow mattered, but hadn’t considered it and certainly hadn’t realized this snow was unmanageable dry powder filled with crunchy sheets of ice.

I later learned others near and far had somehow managed to make many snowmen. One, formed by younger residents, I would at least capture while snuggly inside, through my fourth floor window, But make one myself that day? Not a chance.

So, sadly, mission was aborted. I snapped a few photos and surrendered. As I often find lately, the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak—and the snow quality was a surprise impediment. Still, I had to get back inside the building, one. slow. treacherous. step. at. a. time. without. falling. Bruises and broken bones were not on my agenda.

I made it! The leery, diligently watching volunteer doorwoman was visibly relieved, and I was glad to have at least tried. By damn, I tried! Maybe in Florida’s next historic snow, I’ll do better…

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Musings 4 will be “Inching Forward,” my frank tho lightish and relatively brief take on aging. I suppose it grows partly out of my recount of the snowman effort.

(All images except those including Dolly are Copyright © Dolly Berthelot. Featured photo taken January 21, 2025, “Historic Florida Snow.”)