The fog rolled in. Then it froze.
The trees are bathed in ice. And it is beautiful. Just beautiful.
I never thought I would say something like this – but even at 12 degrees, when the sun comes out, the day is beautiful. Yes, the frozen snowcrust crunches under every step. But if you listen, can you hear a slight giggle. Is there some inside joke at play?
I think so. A refugee I know escaped to Terlingua. He sums it up this way: “The only way to beat winter in Minnesota is to embrace its harshness and dance.”
Example: They say there are really only two seasons up here -- winter and street repair.
My accent gives me away immediately. They know. They all know I’m a stranger to these parts. Another quick clue – I always leave the Zamboni running when I come to visit. “How do you like our winter?” they ask with a knowing twinkle in their voice.
They say “our winter” because they claim it. They own the winter. And they are always damned proud to have lived through another one. When’s the next ice festival, hon?
Somewhere underneath the puffy coats and balaclavas, these people are grinning.