I grew up in eight months of snow. Instead of turning into an Olympic skier, I became a loather of snow.
When I was ten, on Valentine's Day, we left Idaho and moved to Clovis, California. When we left, it was forty below. When we arrived it was sixty above. A one hundred degree difference.
People said it had not snowed in Clovis for thirty-plus years.
It snowed Every Winter we lived there.
We moved to Tehachapi and they had their biggest blizzard in years.
Now we've moved to the AV, a joshua-dotted desert, at a reasonably low elevation (about 2400 feet). In a few months we will be bathing in mercury to keep cool.
Then, this weekend, snow.
The Big O was desperate to go out and play in it, so I accompanied him. He took his horse. and we went out. He rode around, enjoying how the snow clumped on his tires. Then he left the grass and hit the sidewalk and went flying over the horse, face-first into the cement, biting his lip open and bleeding all over his face.
I ran him in and we cleaned him up, but all he wanted to do was go outside. He rode his horse and learned how to make snowballs and he threw them and had a glorious time until I finally talked him into coming inside for something called "hot chocolate"--I had to--I was cold yet I had my hands in my pockets. And I wasn't soaked from the knees down. O had to be freezing. So I bribed him into ending his fun with normally contraband chocolate.
Which he loved.
(BIG O TRACKS)