A little more of a Wisconsinite every day

I grew up in East Tennessee. I grew up with long, melt-your-ice-cream-before-you-can-eat-it summers that never seemed to end. I grew up on a diet of sweet tea and cornbread. I grew up running barefoot through the grass, scaling trees and skinning knees.

I didn’t know snow.

Life was sunshine and sweat and southern drawls that tumbled out slow and sweet like honey. It was flip flops and cooling off by running through the spray of the garden hose.

I didn’t know snow.

It was day trips and weekend trips and week-long trips to the beach. Sun and sand and surf.

I didn’t know snow.

It was plucking plump, juicy blackberries and eating them straight from the vine, until our mouths were ringed in purplish black. It was honeysuckle and playing outdoors all year long.

I didn’t know snow.

And then, two years ago, I moved to a place where snow is the norm. Long winters replaced my long summers. Boots replaced my flip flops. Hot cider replaced my cold iced tea.

This weekend, I wore snow pants for the first time in my life. This weekend, I swung on a swing set on a playground blanketed in snow. This weekend, I used a sled for the first time ever, planting myself firmly on its plastic seat and whooshing down a steep hill, cold wind whipping and adrenaline pumping and squealing with delight.

I now know snow.

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