This week’s snowfall reminded me why Southerners treat snow like an unexpected guest— rare, charming, and worthy of celebration. The flakes came down steadily, painting the neighborhood in white and giving kids and adults alike an excuse to step outside and play. It wasn’t the kind of snow that wreaks havoc, but the kind that invites you to marvel at its quiet beauty.
But it also brought to mind a much different kind of snowstorm—Snowpocalypse 2014. That storm didn’t just decorate Atlanta; it paralyzed it. More than a decade later, the memories of that chaos remain vivid.
That fateful week, when snowflakes turned highways into parking lots and commutes into survival quests, stands as one of the great tales of Southern resilience—and utter chaos. Looking back now, from the comfort of my living room (and the safe distance of a decade), the absurdity and humanity of those icy days have only grown more vivid.
At the time, I felt like if I never saw another snowflake again, it would be too soon. Since then, I’ve had kids and softened a little toward the Yankee Slush as Buford Callaway so beautifully put it in a famous Saturday Night Live sketch. The “little fiasco” that once turned my 30-minute commute into a nine-hour stalemate was my formal initiation into the reality that snow days, snowmen, and snow angels aren’t exactly built for Southerners.
Like most metro Atlanta residents at the time, I dismissed the warnings and scoffed at the meteorologists who cried “snow” at the drop of a thermometer. After all, in Atlanta, snow forecasts are as reliable as Hollywood marriages. The reflexive grocery stampedes for bread, milk, and eggs seemed like a seasonal ritual more for omelet enthusiasts than survivalists.
But Snowjam 2014 wasn’t your run-of-the-mill weather scare. It brought the city to its knees, and made our roads look like something out of a disaster movie. Yet, amid the frustration, it also proved something enduring: Southern hospitality is a force of nature.
The Facebook page SnowedOut Atlanta became a digital lifeline, a hub where stranded strangers found solace and saviors. Merchants opened their doors to provide food and shelter. Along the clogged arteries of I-285, neighbors delivered sustenance to frozen, frightened drivers. Even years later, the generosity of those Good Snowmaritans remains a testament to the best of us.
I owe my own gratitude to several nameless helpers who emerged from a neighborhood to rescue me when my tires met a hill they were never meant to climb. With flashlights, rugs, and good old-fashioned grit, they got my car unstuck and moving again, proving that even in the bleakest moments, kindness prevails. I couldn’t tell you their names, nor could I pick them out of a crowd, but their kindness was unforgettable even after a decade.
I owe them more than they even knew at the time. For me, it wasn’t just about getting home that night. Their kindness allowed my wife and I to start our family. We had a fertility treatment scheduled for the next morning. If I had gotten stranded that night — if I had stopped somewhere before I got home — my family would look completely different than it does today. My family owes a debt of gratitude that we can never repay to people we don’t even know.
Reflecting now, I can almost laugh at the absurdity of being five miles from home yet feeling like I was stranded in Siberia. Sliding and skidding through what felt like an obstacle course of stalled vehicles and abandoned hope, I eventually made it to my neighborhood. My car, however, chose to audition as a luge, careening onto a sidewalk before calling it quits. It spent the next two days in a slushy slumber, while I spent that time wondering if I’d ever willingly touch my car keys again.
To this day, I will not drive in the snow, and even the day after this snow had started to melt, I still wouldn’t go more than five minutes from my house.
Back then, I ended my week huddled by the fire, sipping hot chocolate, and swearing off snow for life. Now, as I glance out the window at this week’s dusting, I feel a tinge of nostalgia—not for the chaos, but for the camaraderie. Snowpocalypse reminded us that even when things go wrong in the most spectacular way, we can still count on the kindness of strangers.
In the years since that day in 2014, the world has changed drastically. We’ve faced political division, a global pandemic, contentious elections, and several moments that have tested our relationships and our humanity. Deep down, I still believe that if snow brought the city to another standstill, we could count on the unshakable spirit of neighbors and the shared strength of a community coming together.
B.T. Clark
B.T. Clark is an award-winning journalist and the Publisher of The Georgia Sun. He has 25 years of experience in journalism and served as Managing Editor of Neighbor Newspapers in metro Atlanta for 15 years and Digital Director at Times-Journal Inc. for 8 years. His work has appeared in several newspapers throughout the state including Neighbor Newspapers, The Cherokee Tribune and The Marietta Daily Journal. He is a Georgia native and a fifth-generation Georgian.
