46 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW appeal with the right frame of mind. But soon my back ached, and my fingers stiffened. Snow relentlessly multiplied and tire tracks stapled it to the driveway. Then I longed to run inside and burrow under my thick brown blanket with a book. I hated scraping my car off, too. Perhaps the worst part of going to school was scouring inches of ice off the windows and driving through slick, snow-caked streets. Shoving a bagel into my mouth, I would turn on the ignition ten minutes before take-off. Standing in the bathroom, I watched my car puffing steam while straightening my hair. I never estimated enough time. I always ended up late, tiredly excavating my windshield just enough to peek above the steering wheel. By the end, I could barely feel my fingers. During those times, I hated the snow and its persistence. I hated the neverending white which chilled the very bones. I dreamed of green grass and warm sun rays, cursing the black slush clumped on every curb. And yet, when I think of home, I think of snow. We take a white Christmas for granted in Minnesota. Blizzards lie just around the corner, and the day we have a green Christmas in Minnesota, I’ll know something is wrong. But we actually spend our Christmases in Ohio. When I was eight, we moved my life from Ohio to my now-home in Minnesota. Despite years spent putting roots down in Minnesota, we always return to my grandparents in Ohio for Christmas. I always wanted to have a white Christmas, but more often than not we simply got rain. But as a result, Christmas started
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