Snowflakes: I stand corrected

Does anyone remember snowflakes? I know Kringle does. Up there from his northern outpost, surrounded by fawning caribou and ornery elves, he remembers. He sips from an impossibly large thermos, recalling past blizzards, rough nights and how in all his years, the only gift he’s ever received were over-baked cookies and spoiled milk. He could’ve skimmed off the top of his sack and told the old lady it “fell off the back of a sleigh.” He desperately needs to upgrade their home’s measly electronic setup. This is a man who’s just now getting around to buying a flat screen – decades after they were in vogue. And just once he’d like to use the front door instead of a chimney. His face usually matched his red suit – ya know, from all the eggnog. In his defense, the man’s always been a little bi-polar. 

But it was a different time. When home invasions were welcomed one day a year and being a snowflake was a good thing, a fine thing, a best thing. You see, “snowflaking” – as it was often referred to in latter half of the 20^th century – implied a sort of profound uniqueness. This was the era of Daria and The Animaniacs – distinctive characters with peculiar habits who were like no one else. But snowflakes evaporate on a car’s hood within seconds of making contact – unless it’s freezing and they quickly pile up by the millions. That’s called a snowstorm. Heard of it?

Children would gather around tiny tables and chairs, carefully cutting up pieces of construction paper into snowflakes for arts and crafts. We were taught that snowflakes were like fingerprints, all different in their own special way. And like us, they wouldn't last forever. You could ball them up, build a snowman, or design an elaborate ice sculpture that has people questioning if you’ve chosen the right profession. 

Weird people were the norm in society then. I knew a guy who once liked to carry rocks of various shapes and sizes in his pocket. He called them “pocket rocks.” Said they were good luck and worth a lot money in Liechtenstein, where rocks are considered currency. I didn’t know any better.   

Nowadays, you can’t be a snowflake. It’s a sign of weakness or worse. I’d like to return to a time when snowflakes were a good thing and goats were a bad thing. While probably too much to ask, a man can dream. Here’s to flurries lit by the albedo effect. Whatever they say, we’re all still snowflakes to me.   

CORRECTIONS: An earlier version of this blog incorrectly referred to Kris Kringle as some guy named Dante with a love of cold weather and venison jerky.

  

An earlier version of this blog misstated what happens to snowflakes when they first make contact with an automobile’s exterior. They don’t dance. They evaporate. 

Because of an editing error, an earlier version also referred to a snowstorm as a dance-off.

An earlier version misidentified the class children once created snowflakes in. It was arts and crafts, not AP Calculus with plenty of TI-83 calcs and additional arithmetical accoutrements. 

Because of an editing error, an earlier version erroneously used the term pocket rockets instead of pocket rocks. 

An earlier version of this blog mistakenly referred to the albedo effect as the Alfredo effect: saucy, snowy and an altogether creamy good time.