It's not that I didn't know what snow was during my lifetime. I did grow up on a ranch near Snowville. Of course, it was named after Lorenzo Snow, but still, there was a lot of snow there, and we wintered our cattle there. And yes, there was a lot of snow, but there were cedar trees where cattle could get out of the wind, and with the rolling hills at the foot of several large mountains that cradled that ranch, drainage was also good for cows. Water never pooled and made it difficult during calving season. And we fed them every day.
I had an advantage. During the school year, my dad drove alone to the ranch to take care of them, but every Saturday after whatever practice I had--either wrestling or basketball or music--I went with him. Dad drove over what we called the Holbrook Divide. We left as early as possible, and we arrived home late.
We always had this smelly English Springer Spaniel the family loved at our feet in that truck. My dad said often, "Necessity makes for strange bedfellows." You realize what that means when the truck skids a bit and you notice that there are six foot drifts along the side of the road.
Drifts weren't the problem. It was drifting snow we worried about. And I soon figured what my dad meant when he would point to the dog and say he might be a bedfellow. Smelly or not, that dog's furry coat would keep us warm in the truck until help arrived. But we never ran off the road once. In fact, I still enjoy driving in snow, as long as the storm isn't a whiteout.
But living in this stuff the Germans would call Scheissweiss four weeks after you wished for a white Christmas is not what I call heaven. And even those in Minnesota who say they love it, appear different in September when the sun's rays are not quite as bright and the wind has a hint of chill. They really start getting this bit of an "edge." They honk more in traffic. They flash anger in their eyes. But they never cuss that often. 
I stubbed my toe in the Mall of America during this "edgy" time, and I immediately let go the classic farm word I learned at the age of three. "Shit," I said, and people looked at me as if I were one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
But the time in Minnesota is almost over. Lydia and Jeff sold their house, packed everything and moved into an apartment to wait for June, when they move to Jacksonville, Florida. Lydia is almost giddy. No, she is giddy. Even when I tell her one of my dumb jokes, she laughs hysterically, unlike the moments when funny jokes resulted in only silence. I still believe I could hear crickets making tiny sounds somewhere in the world as I waited patiently for a giggle.
The only time I hear crickets is when I mention the fact how much I'll miss springtime in Minnesota: the sound of frogs, the song of Kill Deer, the sobbing of doves, and the taste of Sauerkraut at the local Dutch restaurant.
Lydia and Jeff are ready for warm winters and sunny beaches, gators and all.
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