The South’s Ice Storm Golden Rule: Love Thy Neighbor, Clear the Shelves

Georgia got hit with an ice storm today, which in Southern terms means we received approximately one-eighth of an inch of frozen precipitation and responded like the opening scene of a disaster movie.

For those unfamiliar with Georgia’s relationship with winter weather, let me explain: We treat ice the way medieval villagers treated the plague. With panic, superstition, and a deep conviction that the only cure is bread, milk, and eggs. I’ve never understood the bread-milk-eggs trinity. What are people making? The world’s saddest French toast? Are we all planning to ride out the apocalypse with a nice quiche?

But this year was different. This year, Georgians didn’t just prepare. They cared. Deeply. About their neighbors.

Back in 2014, when Atlanta got hit with that infamous snowstorm that turned the interstate into a parking lot, I wrote about how kind Georgians were to each other. People opened their homes to stranded strangers. They shared food, blankets, and warmth. It was beautiful. It was humanity at its finest. It was the kind of thing that makes you believe in the goodness of people.

And I am absolutely thrilled to report that we are still exactly like that.

In fact, we’ve gotten even better at caring for our neighbors. So much better that by Thursday—a full three days before the ice storm—grocery stores were completely emptied. Shelves that once held bread now held only the dreams of latecomers and a single bag of hamburger buns with a suspicious expiration date.

But this wasn’t hoarding. Oh no. This was community outreach.

You see, when someone buys seventeen loaves of bread, they’re not thinking about themselves. They’re thinking about Mrs. Henderson down the street who has that hip problem and can’t get out much. They’re thinking about the young couple next door with the new baby. They’re thinking about the entire cul-de-sac, really, and how tragic it would be if anyone had to face this crisis without the ability to make sandwiches for a month straight.

When someone clears out the milk aisle—and I mean clears it out, leaving nothing but a puddle and some confused dairy workers—they’re not being selfish. They’re being generous. They’re making sure that every household within a five-mile radius has access to calcium. They’re thinking about bone health. They’re thinking about the children. Won’t someone please think of the children?

A friend showed me a picture of someone at Costco buying ten cases of bottled water and three backup generators. Three. Now, I don’t know about you, but when I see someone purchasing enough emergency equipment to power a small hospital, I don’t think “panic buying.” I think “philanthropist.”

This person clearly has a lot of friends they’re taking care of. Or perhaps—and this is even more heartwarming—they’re planning to set up a community charging station in their driveway. A place where neighbors can gather, charge their phones, and share stories by generator light. It’s basically a modern barn-raising, except with extension cords and the faint smell of gasoline.

And the toilet paper. Oh, the toilet paper.

It is genuinely heartwarming to know that so many Georgians care deeply about whether or not their neighbors have adequate bathroom supplies. When someone buys 5,500 rolls of toilet paper—and yes, I’m told this happened—they’re not thinking about themselves. They’re thinking about distribution logistics. They’re thinking about the elderly woman three houses down who might run out. They’re thinking about the college kids renting that house on the corner who probably don’t have their lives together enough to stock up properly.

They’re thinking about dignity. About comfort. About making sure that when the ice storm hits and civilization crumbles, at least everyone will be able to use the bathroom with confidence.

Some cynics—and there are always cynics—might suggest that this was selfish behavior. That people were hoarding out of fear and a complete disregard for their fellow citizens. But I refuse to believe that. I choose to believe that every person who walked out of Kroger with a shopping cart that looked like they were preparing for a nuclear winter was actually just a very dedicated neighborhood servant.

I choose to believe that the man who bought forty cans of soup wasn’t thinking “I need forty cans of soup.” He was thinking “I need to make sure everyone on Maple Street has soup.” He was thinking “What if the Johnsons run out? What if the Smiths didn’t prepare? What if that weird guy at the end of the street who never waves back is secretly struggling?”

This is the Georgia I know and love. The Georgia that looks out for one another. The Georgia that says, “I’m going to buy enough supplies for a small army because I care about my community that much.”

And if, by some strange coincidence, none of those supplies ever make it to the neighbors? Well, that’s probably just because the ice storm wasn’t as bad as predicted and everyone decided to keep their emergency stash for next time. You know, just in case. For the neighbors. Obviously.

It’s refreshing to see that in the deep South we haven’t forgotten our roots and have truly shown the lessons set forth in the golden rule of loving our neighbors the way we love ourselves.