I was talking among a group of people recently when the topic of conversation turned to the weather — not unusual, I guess.
It was a hot day and we started with stories of hot summer weather — violent thunderstorms and summers with days on end of hot, sultry temperatures and steamy, sleepless nights.
We remembered certain storms. A couple of us recalled the time when Hurricane Hazel hit the area — that was back in the early 1950s. Unfortunately, I was one of those with a good memory.
After a few minutes, the talk inevitably turned to winter and snow. After all, at least one person in that group had lived in Fulton during the winter months of past years, and most of us had some vivid memories.
We all had memories of snow — lots of snow — of shoveling for hours and then going back to the beginning and doing it all over again, of sitting in the house while the snow piled up over the windows, of enjoying playing in deep snow, of building forts and castles of snow, and on and on.
One person thought that he remembered hearing about snow in the area long after winter was supposedly over — like in June, he thought.
Sparked by that, I remembered my father telling me about a very unusual snowfall when he was young. He was sure that it may have been in June.
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