I was born in Dayton, Ohio. Our first residence was a tiny house that was once owned by Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. Looking back at old photos, I now realize we lived in the “projects.” Every house looked the same. They marched down the street, like soldiers.

            We did have running water and electricity, but the only washing machine was an old-fashioned wringer type. I had to catch the clothes as they emerged, with a caution that I’d lose my hands if I wasn’t careful.

            I was an imaginative child. Every night, I dreamt of a hand being smashed between those rollers.

            Our next house was in a nicer neighborhood. It was two-story, with the upstairs unfinished. At some point my mom let me move upstairs, probably to get away from my younger sister.

            My brother and I often played outside in the snow. We weren’t allowed out of our yard, so our activities were reduced to building snowmen and throwing snowballs.

            Just before my fourth-grade year of school, we moved to Beavercreek, Ohio. It was a large subdivision bordering a forest owned by the Air Force. Nothing could be built there as it was part of the runway.

            The upper part of the subdivision was fairly flat. As the streets headed south and east, hills came into play. Our house sat on one of those hills. The house to our north sat a tad higher than ours, while the one on the south was a bit lower.

            No fences on any of our properties.

            Ohio can be incredibly cold and snowy. One winter it snowed so much that it came up to my ten-year-old knees. Often after a snow, it warms slightly, then chills at night, turning everything to ice.

            My brother got the idea to build an igloo. We thought we knew how to build one as we’d read many stories about indigenous peoples. I wasn’t allowed to use the saw, so he did all the cutting. I was the porter and the builder. He cut a block of ice; I carried it to the site and layered one block on top of another.

            When the wall was too high, he had to finish off the igloo.

            Somehow, we succeeded! There was a hole as a door. The walls curved inward, creating a dome at the top.

            Crawling in was fun, except for when the ice melted. Then our mittens and knees of our pants got soaked. Once inside, though, it was surprisingly warm. We’d pack lunches, crawl through, and no matter the temperature outside, eat in comfort.

            I’d just learned how to read thanks to a children’s librarian who showed me a collection of easy-to-read nonfiction books on Indigenous people. My mom insisted her great-great-great grandmother was “Native.” She claimed her tan skin was evidence, as well as her love of bread and gardening.

            I wanted to know more about that relative, and so read every book the library had. When it wasn’t too cold, I’d take a book into the igloo and spend precious time reading. Alone. Out of the maelstrom of my life.

            The following winter very little snow fell, but thanks to freezing nighttime temperatures, there was plenty of ice.

            My brother and I would pull our sled uphill into the neighbor’s yard. With a good running start, and a timely jump, we’d fly down that hill, sail across our yard, downhill into the next, ending midway into that neighbor’s yard.

            It was great fun. We also never got hurt.

            On our last winter in Beavercreek before moving to California, once again, little snow fell. It was cold, though, so cold that huge icicles hung from our gutters and every powerline. The combined weight of icicles pulled the powerlines down, down, down. We lost electricity several times, the popping and snapping terrifying me. It was not until crews came out and removed the ice that our electricity was returned.

            The wind was fierce. It howled like a banshee, a truly scary sound. We’d huddle inside, not daring to go out in that storm. When morning came, we went outside to discover roof-high piles of snow on the north side of our house.

            Huge icicles hung everywhere. When the sun lit them up, the sparkling light amazed me.

            We broke off the tips from some, licking them as if they were popsicles. They were flavorless, but in our minds, they were as good as the best thing we’d ever had.

            Those were good memories. While I think fondly back on those times, I am grateful to live in the San Francisco Bay Area where it never snows.