46 47 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW to mean more than just snow, becoming a tapestry of laughter, wrapping paper, and homemade cinnamon rolls. Yet sometimes it did snow, tiny little inches that sent the city into a panic. Unlike Minnesota, Ohio doesn’t have giant snowplows that span two or three lanes. Instead, my grandpa would disappear in the middle of the night, steadily plowing and salting till three or four in the morning. I remember we had a real, proper snow one frosty winter before moving to Minnesota. You could have made me believe it was a blizzard, the way inches looked like feet. My brother and I stuffed ourselves into snow-overalls, hats, and scarves, and dove into the white ocean. Childishly, clumsily, we rolled together a leaning snowman, looking rather lopsided but jolly, nonetheless. As my cheeks pinked, I lifted my tongue to catch the snow. But it always seemed to miss no matter how hard I tried, as though it wanted to stay everywhere but me. My university lies about an hour from my old house in Ohio. I hate the wind the most. I miss the trees and lakes and hills that tempered it at home. At school, nothing protects me from the biting gale careening across campus. But I can almost forgive Ohio when it snows. Several weeks ago, Ohio surprised me again with several inches. I left my brownbrick dorm that morning, boots crunching deliciously onto the path, and it sounded like high school. The sky was muted and soft gray, not the oppressive kind, but the kind which makes you 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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