I grew up in Florida. Everybody knows it doesn’t snow in Florida. Not even that final northernmost strip of land that lies down in a bed next to Georgia. We didn’t understand the sentiments behind the song, “White Christmas” and I never once hoped for one. Why would I waste my time? The best we could hope for was the temperature dropping below 68 degrees. So we could wear us some Christmas gloves. And not sweat.

In the “winter” of 1989, all of that changed.

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