Member-only story
You Call This Cold?
Ha! This Isn’t Cold.
I grew up in Detroit, where the snow hit the ground in early November and stayed through April. Snowfall wasn’t remarkable; it was a given.
Michigan’s license plates proclaimed it to be a Winter “Wonderland,” which was true if your concept of wonderland meant “many opportunities to shovel.”
Winter meant temperatures that often dipped into single digits. It was so cold that seconds after you stepped outside, the snot in your nose would freeze.
Every morning we waited on the corner for the school bus, our breath visible in the icy air, so bundled up we looked like a gathering of mini Michelin men, in bulky jackets, snow pants, thermal socks, sturdy boots, scarves, face masks, hats and, of course, mittens.
We didn’t dress this way to go out and play in the snow for hours. We dressed this way to be able to endure 10 minutes of standing around.
Our goal? Not to freeze to death before the bus turned up.
When I graduated from high school, because I didn’t know any better, I went to college in Chicago, where winters aren’t just cold, they’re insanely cold.
Due to wind chill, it was often sub zero, the kind of bone-chilling cold that made not just the contents of your nose freeze, but your teeth hurt and…
