We've had snowfall already, a couple of inches on the ground.
I remember hearing a man who moved here from Arizona gripe, "Every time I say 'hi' to someone they say something about the weather!" and I realized I had never once thought it odd that here in Michigan our prime topic for small talk is meteorology. It just
is. We talk about weather here because it's dramatic, unpredictable, annoying, inconvenient and for some of us, why we stay.
I love the four seasons in Michigan. We lived in Pasadena, California five years, which is where our kids were born. As lovely as palm trees and birds of paradise are, there was too much concrete for me. "L.A. is a great big freeway . . ."
Also, I missed the drama. You might rightly ask, No drama in L.A.? All those mudslides, earthquakes, Santana winds? And oh so horrific wildfires that devour millions of acres of brush, trees and houses. Yes, but I don't want that kind of drama.
I'd rather have the fiery reds and golds of autumn, the cold, snow and dormancy of winter, and the exhilerating birth of spring in the North. I've never quite understood why people complain about the cold weather here. Why do they stay, I wonder? Well, maybe they don't have much choice. It's a lot of work to relocate. And maybe they'd miss the drama too but won't admit it.
In spite of extra time and effort putting on boots, scarves, gloves, hats and coats (and all that multiplied by however many children you have), in spite of the sloshy yuck of puddles on the street, despite icy roads driving all the way in to the university, I adore winter in Michigan.
When a walk in the meadow is quiet from two feet of snow absorbing sound, muffling the scrunch of my bootfalls. When trees are bare of leaves, revealing black or blonde bones ending in fine fingers against a white sky. When snowflakes as big and downy as duck feathers float down in rapid succession. When the pond is frozen for sliding, spazzing, falling and laughing. When skating 'round and 'round an ice rink becomes meditation under city lights. When building a fort of snow-ice bricks makes my brothers and me feel like Eskimos before transforming into soldiers with snowball amunition. When blue moonlight reflects off snow-covered ground and a light in the window warms the house, calling me home to Don. When wind screams outside, blowing snow sideways, and I'm indoors lying on the couch with a poofy blanket, a book, and a fire in the woodstove, sleepiness weighting my eyes. This is winter at its most satisfying, and fire is a well contained and welcome mystery.
