Mom and me, Big Bear Mountain, ca. 1980
I know I don’t know what cold really is. I’ve lived in Southern California most of my life, and I can probably count the times I’ve seen the snow on my fingertips. I don’t know how it feels to bundle up head to toe. I have never had to worry about my car getting buried alive. I don’t know what below zero even means.
Still, I daydream of marching home down icy paths, making snow angels and tossing snowballs at friends, and waking up in the morning to find the whole world covered in a blanket of blinding white.