When Winter Doesn't Happen

It's the end of my second January in the mid-Atlantic and I've got a strange complaint, one that will make every Clevelander pick up the world's smallest violin.

Winter doesn't happen here.

I've never been a big fan of winter; in fact, I distinctly recall my last winter in Cleveland, standing in a foot of wet snow, brushing more than a foot off my car for about the third time that day, then having to chip off a layer of ice. My pants cuffs and shoes, of course, filled with snow too at this point. I recall thinking, "Never, never again."

But there's something about a harsh winter that makes life feel real, and normal. When they say New Yorkers are out of touch with that nebulous "rest" of Amurrica, I have to wonder if, at least in this regard, they might be right.

Winter in the Great Lakes is like the alcoholic's rock bottom; full of misery and despair, while on the other hand there's nowhere to go but up. When you're driving through four feet of lake effect snow every day, you can't help being (even just a little bit) tough. Despite its posturing, there isn't anything about New York City life that can toughen one up like winter driving.

Winter in the Great Lakes is like death, with spring (which sometimes doesn't really come until, ummm, May) being like rebirth. If you'll bear with me to the end of this cliche, nobody dies here. Nobody just stays inside for a week, alone with forced solitude and other introspective pursuits, because it just doesn't stop snowing. It's like one of those terrifying sci fi worlds where everyone lives forever, the kind that's supposed to show you that you really don't want immortality.

The thing is, spring happens here, and summer and fall happen here, but a true winter is missing. That feels unbalanced to me. And I'm very suspicious of all things unbalanced.