Winter Nostalgia
I never thought I would say it, but sometimes I miss Michigan winters. During the six years that Bill and I lived near Traverse City, we could count on snow the first week in November, and we didn't see the ground again until May. The first year we lived there, it snowed every day for three months. We never needed to check a forecast, because the weather was always the same: temperatures in the twenties and an inch or two of new snow. The wind rarely blew, and the temperature never varied, so the snow piled up and stayed put, all winter long. As far as we were concerned, the first official day of spring was just another snowy winter day; spring didn't really arrive for us until well into May.
That first winter, I think we suffered from culture shock. There was a good reason why no one else wanted to rent that picturesque chalet in the woods. Whenever he wasn't working, Bill was blowing the snow from our mile-long lane.
In northern Michigan, even the county roads are paved to make snow removal easy; snowplows work around the clock to keep all roads open. School is hardly ever closed because of too much snow. My kindergartners wore their one-piece snowmobile suits to school every day. They always wore their boots and remembered to bring extra shoes; their mittens were securely attached to their sleeves because they couldn't afford to lose them. What's more, they all knew how to get into and out of their outdoor winter clothing without help, because they did it several times a day for six months every year. What a contrast to winter in western Nebraska, where several of my preschool students don't even own a pair of boots, and many forget to wear gloves and hats even when the temperature is below zero!
In Michigan, we soon learned to do what the natives did--we began to embrace winter. We enjoyed cozy winter evenings in front of a toasty fire. We gathered together with friends to play marathon board games and cards. We went ice skating and sledding. We cheered for our local ice hockey team. We enjoyed watching the snowmobilers and dog sled teams and iceboats. We learned to ski.
I still remember the first time we went cross country skiing. Our Bible study group had finished its evening meeting at our hosts' country home when someone suggested that we all go skiing right then and there. Our hosts had several teenaged and grown children, so they had enough equipment for all of us. Someone gave us a few brief words of instruction and then, we were off, down the lane and through the woods, in the dark. I had no choice--I learned to ski. Bill and I were both hooked. We bought some brand new, never-used, cross country skis and boots from some people who suddenly changed their minds and moved to Florida; after that, we skied together and with friends, every weekend. Many weekdays, I came home from school and took our dog, Ramsey, with me when I skied from our back door to the lake behind our house. The snow was always just right, and the weather was always perfect for skiing.
If the weather is going to be cold anyway, I would just as soon have snow. I would gladly trade Nebraska's brown, wind-blown terrain for that beautiful, snow-covered Michigan landscape. I would love to be able to come home from school again and ski with my kids, right out the back door and onto the adjacent bike path that leads up to Scotts Bluff National Monument. What an experience that would be!
I have to admit, though, that I am really glad that spring comes in March here in Nebraska. I'm already counting the days.
That first winter, I think we suffered from culture shock. There was a good reason why no one else wanted to rent that picturesque chalet in the woods. Whenever he wasn't working, Bill was blowing the snow from our mile-long lane.
In northern Michigan, even the county roads are paved to make snow removal easy; snowplows work around the clock to keep all roads open. School is hardly ever closed because of too much snow. My kindergartners wore their one-piece snowmobile suits to school every day. They always wore their boots and remembered to bring extra shoes; their mittens were securely attached to their sleeves because they couldn't afford to lose them. What's more, they all knew how to get into and out of their outdoor winter clothing without help, because they did it several times a day for six months every year. What a contrast to winter in western Nebraska, where several of my preschool students don't even own a pair of boots, and many forget to wear gloves and hats even when the temperature is below zero!
In Michigan, we soon learned to do what the natives did--we began to embrace winter. We enjoyed cozy winter evenings in front of a toasty fire. We gathered together with friends to play marathon board games and cards. We went ice skating and sledding. We cheered for our local ice hockey team. We enjoyed watching the snowmobilers and dog sled teams and iceboats. We learned to ski.
I still remember the first time we went cross country skiing. Our Bible study group had finished its evening meeting at our hosts' country home when someone suggested that we all go skiing right then and there. Our hosts had several teenaged and grown children, so they had enough equipment for all of us. Someone gave us a few brief words of instruction and then, we were off, down the lane and through the woods, in the dark. I had no choice--I learned to ski. Bill and I were both hooked. We bought some brand new, never-used, cross country skis and boots from some people who suddenly changed their minds and moved to Florida; after that, we skied together and with friends, every weekend. Many weekdays, I came home from school and took our dog, Ramsey, with me when I skied from our back door to the lake behind our house. The snow was always just right, and the weather was always perfect for skiing.
If the weather is going to be cold anyway, I would just as soon have snow. I would gladly trade Nebraska's brown, wind-blown terrain for that beautiful, snow-covered Michigan landscape. I would love to be able to come home from school again and ski with my kids, right out the back door and onto the adjacent bike path that leads up to Scotts Bluff National Monument. What an experience that would be!
I have to admit, though, that I am really glad that spring comes in March here in Nebraska. I'm already counting the days.
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