I've always lived in places where it snowed. Except for a short stint in San Jose, where I felt like an outer space alien. It's important to specify what kind of alien when referencing California. If I'm going to be scorned, I want to be deported for the right reasons. (Oops, my political slip is showing.)
I grew up mostly in central Pennsylvania, where it SNOWS. I mean SNOW. Not namby-pamby snow. Snow when it's cold. Snow that is deep. Snow that gets packed on the streets. Snow that defies salt, truck blades and wheels. Snow that stays. In my home town, it is not uncommon to wake up to this:
Sure, in January. But sometimes in March. And one year, in April. OK, so it's not Minnesota or Idaho, but I'm used to, and long for, real snow. I now live in balmy southeastern Pennsylvania (you can beg to differ, Musings,) where the snow tends to dust or sprinkle, on the flaky side. Yesterday, here in PA, (yes, we really call our state "P-A") we got some snow. I overheard people worrying about getting to work, having enough groceries and whether such-and-such event would be canceled. So here's the "snow:"
You Mid-westerners and Canadians can stop laughing now. My sarcasm notwithstanding, I love where we live. I love this small town. I love our house. I love our life. Fortunately, the men in my life don't care about my view of snow. They don't do sarcasm. They just have a great time. My cheerful, happy, run-about son - I am so glad you are in my life. And Handsome Husband, you are my Sunshine.