It never snows here for Christmas. Or, for that matter, just about any other day of the year. It's part of that double-edged sword called living in the deep south. We have gorgeous springs and pleasant falls, but summer is hell and winter is too cold to be comfortable and too warm to snow.
Oh, I'm not wishing for a blizzard like the one that passed through here in on a weekend in March 1993, leaving as much as 15 inches of snow in some places (including my back yard). That weekend, the snow weighted down tree branches which broke, taking out powerlines just in time for the temperature to drop to the teens. With no power and no fireplace, we didn't dare go out in the snow; there was no way to warm ourselves back up when we came back inside. So we shivered under piles of blankets and cursed the cold white stuff.
But 1993 was a long time ago, and there haven't been many snowfalls since. Is it really too much to ask to have four or five inches of the stuff on the ground, just enough to turn a winter day into a vacation day from work without being so bad that ambulances and fire trucks can't safely navigate the roads?