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My good friend, a Pennsylvania resident, retired last week. She plans to do a lot of traveling. For starters, she’ll go to California and another warm-climate area. When I called to congratulate her on her final day, she said, “Don’t forget, I’m coming to visit you.” Then, she added with a chuckle, “But not until spring.” Of course, everyone knows you don’t want to visit Minnesota in the winter. Brr …
Had it been the past few years, I would have told her to come, the winters aren’t that bad anymore. Thanks to global warming, we Minnesotans have been spoiled. When we want to talk about The Big One, we have to search all the way back to 1991, the year of the unforgettable Halloween snowstorm. Cedar Avenue was rutted with ice and many roads had drivers at a standstill. I remember it well because my father was in intensive care at Fairview Southdale Hospital. As I drove north to visit him every day, my concern for him was nearly matched by my fear that I might slide off the road and end up in a bed in the same unit.
Before that, though, there were many other downfalls that inconvenienced us but not enough that we can pinpoint the day and the year. Not much stops us hardy Minnesotans. I remember only one time in my 27 years of selling cars that the dealership where I worked closed because of the weather. It was a Saturday before Christmas. Even though the big malls closed because of the snow and cold, my friend learned St. Anthony Main was open. Despite warnings from our husbands and meteorologists, we ventured downtown to finish our holiday shopping.
The only blizzard that stopped me in my tracks was when I was a freshman at the University of Minnesota. For the first time in the school’s history, classes were cancelled. I lived at home and even after the worst was over, my mother forbade me to drive because of the unsafe road conditions. Mom left me no choice: I bundled up in warm clothes and took my little sisters, 8 and 10, outside to play. For a couple of hours, I forgot I was a grownup college student and reverted to childish fun. The little girls and I made snow angels and snow people and had a snowball fight. My younger brother, a high school student, joined the frolic. He drew the line at snow angels but wasn’t too cool to lob a few well-packed snowballs at us.
When I spoke with my newly-retired friend last week, I didn’t tell her to visit sooner than spring. That our winters aren’t as frigid and snowy as people think. This year, it would have been a tall tale. Brr … this year may make history. Cold, with more flurries on the way, this has been a season only those of us with hardiness can take. No, I’ll definitely tell my friend not to visit until spring. Late spring. Maybe summer. After all, when I was three-years-old, we had so much snow that, instead of dressing in Easter finery, my sister and I wore snowsuits to church. Later that day, Dad took us outside with our cousins and we made a six-foot-tall bunny in the front yard. I have the picture to prove it. Brr …
Happy holidays to all!