Today in Oswego, NY, the horror that is my hometown, the snow has piled up about two feet over night. The landlord is out snow-blowing the sidewalk and my car is covered like a wedding cake. I open the back door and want to turn tail and hide. It’s still snowing as I shovel.
The thing about snow here is that it is unyielding. Once the lake decides to let loose, Oswego and the surrounding area is in for a cold and fluffy day. I’ve seen snow in this area be as high as thirteen feet and you would not believe it unless you’ve seen it yourself. The snow banks has been over my head by many feet and driving around them is a circus act.
I recall the scalding heat of Houston as I shovel snow. I used to ride my bike to the Circle K in the dead of summer. The heat would radiate from my flesh so hot when I got back home that one ice cube to my brow melted by the time I reached the next brow with it. The dead of winter in Oswego is so bitter cold that my skin feels the sting like Houston’s summer heat. The ice is strong here. The cold mocks my flesh and bones. I cannot hide, instead I shovel off my porch and mutter to myself “When I grow up, I’m moving back to Houston, TX. Heck, anywhere the sun lives, I’m goin’ …San Antonio …Hawaii …Mexico …Africa. Anywhere but here. Any, doggone, where but here.”