I miss the snow. Yes, I know the United States gets snow, but to my Canadian eye, American snow is like American health care: sporadic, unreliable and distributed unevenly among the population. In my hometown, Exeter, in the heart of Ontario's snow belt, punishing squalls were a fact of life from November through mid-April. One time, 39 inches fell on the town in three days - and school wasn't even canceled. And it wasn't just the quantity of snow - it's the speed with which it arrived.
When I was a child, it wasn't unusual for my 15-minute walk home from school to begin under clear skies and end in a blizzard. I remember once, when I was 8 years old, stumbling into my house, my hair covered in powder and my eyelashes frozen together, and screaming, "Why do we live here?!" My mother took my face in her warm hands and said, "Because it's where people love you."
At the time, that struck me as the lamest statement ever uttered by a human being. But today, as I sit under the California sun, it only strikes me as halfway lame, and maybe even less than that.
