I grew up in way upstate New York. Any further up and I’d talk with a Canadian accent. Any further East and I’d either be wet from Lake Champlain, or speaking in a Yankee accent.
I miss it – the crisp crunch of the snow, the months-long duration of whiteness that burns your eyes and weathers your skin, the sharp knife of freezing air in your lungs. Sounds like I’m complaining, but I really do miss that sort of thing. Real Skidoo boots. People who understood how to drive in the snow. Only using snow days for when there’s a real snow.
But as much as I miss it, whether it’s the nostalgic glow or a real feeling, I couldn’t go back. Along with the real boots came real snow drifts, waist-high. Car batteries that conked out, occasional snowstorms that would knock out power for a week. I used to be built of sterner stuff back then, or maybe it’s just that I have lived in the warmth of Southern Ohio long enough that the frozen North has melted out of me.
My parents, on the other hand, moved from that upstate New York area down to Southern Arizona. They find that the warmer climate agrees with them, and I can’t say that I blame them for wanting to be warm.
And so it is in the spirit of familial cordiality that I invite my Arizona-living parents to come North to Cincinnati, where it’s nice and warm.
Today we ended up six degrees warmer than they did, and tomorrow it will be a full ten degrees. So Mom and Dad, come on up and watch the snow melt!