I’m just going to keep going until I’m all the way back to the snows of my infancy.
When I was 4 I had my fondest wish granted. I lived in Arizona at the time, and we finally went to visit my North Dakota grandparents during the winter — probably for Christmas. They gave me a red snowsuit and red boots. It was the best thing ever. I remember walking out onto the patio which had been transformed by a huge fall of snow — feet deep, in drifts. I have a vague notion that the Weber grill was out there covered in snow, with a little hollow under it, but that can’t be right, because my grandparents were careful people and the grill should have been in the garage or the basement for the winter. Maybe I only remember it because it wasn’t there in its accustomed place? I remember making angels outside, and then I think I got sick — probably as a result of things that had been going on at home rather than the lovely snow.
We moved to North Dakota that spring, and then from there to Oak Park, outside Chicago, the following spring, where there were also some amazing snows. It seems to me that it turned out that my red boots were not the best, after all. I think you had to pull them on over shoes and they fastened with a button, and my friend Jane had some better ones that zipped and had fur at the top and were easier to manage.
All that seems a little sad, now.