My family moved to Beavercreek, Ohio just before the beginning of my fourth-grade year of elementary school. We used to live in the city, but now we were out in the country, far from everything.

            In order to drive my brother and I to school, which was in Dayton, my mother had to learn how to drive. She was a nervous wreck, which I could understand considering my dad’s short fuse. But, she pushed on, despite what I assumed were many terrifying hours in the car, being yelled at by my dad. Eventually she passed the test and got her license.

            My dad purchased a beat-up Ford business coupe for her to drive. It had no back seat, no heat. When it was hot, only the two front windows opened and little air made it back to where we sat atop piles of cushions and blankets. We felt every bump, every pot hole.

            When winter came along, my mom still had to drive us to school, despite roads covered in slippery snow. She must have driven with hands tightly clenched on the steering wheel, hoping not to slide into another vehicle or off the road.

            One plus about where we now lived was that the houses were terraced: The one to our north sat slightly higher than our house, while the one to the south was a short hill below.

            Ohio can be incredibly cold in the winter. I recall one such winter when it snowed so much that our boots sank so deeply through the crust that our knees got soaked.

            The crust froze, making a slick surface perfect for running and sliding downhill. It also seemed perfect for building an igloo.

            My brother used a shovel to chop out blocks of snow. Working together, we piled them on top of each other, one by one, forming an igloo. We were incredibly proud of our accomplishment and could hardly wait to go inside.

            The next morning, before the sun could melt our construction, my brother and I got down on hands and knees and crept through the opening. Our gloves and pants were drenched, but initially we didn’t mind.

            It was quiet inside. Sunlight filtered through the upper blocks, creating a mystical glow reminiscent of fantasy stories my brother had been reading.

            I’d just learned to read (yes, I was slow to catch on), but thanks to a kind librarian who walked me to the nonfiction section where a series of books about Indigenous tribes of North America. I read them all, thanks to the help of black-and-white illustrations, and memorized minute details about their cultures, foods, dress, ceremonies, housing and all tiny details that enriched my understanding.

            One of my favorite books was about the Eskimos, now the Inuit. I was intrigued by the seal-skin clothing they wore, their kayaks, their methods of hunting, and their igloos. I read into the descriptions, imagining families seated on furs, cooking over fires, and huddling together sharing stories.

            As my brother and I sat inside our creation, I spoke of all I’d learned. It was the first time in my life where I knew more than my older brother.

            Some winters were light on snow, but thanks to freezing nighttime temperatures, the yard was quite slippery. While I’d never seen an ice-skating rink except on television, in my mind, our yard was just as slick.

            We had an old Red Flyer sled that someone had given us. Our dad rubbed the rust off the runners until he was sure it would glide smoothly.

            My brother and I would pull the sled up the hill and well into our neighbor’s yard. We’d run together, my brother in the lead, and once we were going pretty fast, he’d jump on, leaving enough space for me behind him.

            On a good day, we’d fly down that hill, sail across our yard, then down the hill into the next. We’d do this over and over until the quality of the snow changed.

            On the last winter before we moved to California, very little snow fell despite it being incredibly cold. When I stood at the bus stop waiting for the school but to arrive, the scarf around my face became encrusted with ice, my fingers and toes burned and I shivered from head to toe.

            One night a brisk wind came up and the temperature dropped drastically. We stayed warm, thanks to many blankets and cups of hot chocolate.

            The next morning, to our surprise, icicles hung from power lines, roofs, and even door handles. Most of them were quite long, perhaps a foot or two, with sharp points. They’d break off with a resounding crack, then fall to the ground where they’d shatter into millions of pieces.

            Even though I was fourteen and supposedly knew better, I was convinced that if one struck the top of my head, it would cleave my skull in half.

            There was one very weird thing about what snow did fall: on the north side of the house it stood higher than the peak of the roof, while on the other side, dirt showed through the sparse cover.

            While I cherish these memories, I am grateful to be living in California, in a part of the state where it doesn’t snow.