Yesterday smug northerners ridiculed the snowbound paralysis of Atlanta.

“There was only two inches of snow,” sneered Jon Stewart of Comedy Central.

‘Maybe we should airlift Maine drivers down to the South to teach them how to drive in winter conditions,” joked a friend at Frank’s Lounge.

My grandfather once said, “There are two seasons in Maine, the season of good sledding and the season of bad sledding.”

No one south of the Swanee River ever entertained thoughts of good sledding or bad sledding, but it wasn’t a question of snow.

The goal accumulation in Fulton County was from 2-5 inches.

The real problem was two-fold.

The mayor of Atlanta and the governor of the Peach Tree State advised their people not to worry.

“We have it covered.”

And they might have, if the temperature at commuter departure time hadn’t dropped to 7 degrees Fahrenheit, which froze the melting snow to black ice.

Black ice is a terror.

According to Wikipedia black ice, sometimes called clear ice, refers to a thin coating of glazed ice on a surface. While not truly black, it is virtually transparent, allowing black asphalt/macadam roadways or the surface below to be seen through it—hence the term “black ice”.

Tires glide like hockey pucks on black ice.

In Atlanta, New York, Boston, or Montreal.

No one can drive on it.

Back in the winter 1974 I was hacking for Boston Cab to pay for my college tuition.

One frigid night I rounded the corner at the Christian Science Building to pick up a fare on Clearway Street. The rear of the Checker glided left and I corrected the veer with ease. The customer was waiting on the sidewalk at the end of the street. I rolled at a safe 5mph and tapped the brakes to stop, however the street was glazed by black ice and I passed the fare without losing speed. Directly in my path was a parked Boston Police cruiser in which sat two cops eating donuts. They saw my headlights. I pressed lightly on the brakes. The Checker slid into a slo-mo diagonal vector aimed at the driver’s door.

Inertia took control and the cab stopped inches from the cop car.

My fare sat in the back.

The officers shook their head.

I shrugged an apology and drove the customer to the 1270 Club on Boylston without a scratch.

So I understand the Atlanta shutdown.

They can’t drive for shit.