I grew up in the American Midwest. In northern Wisconsin, to be precise, where the tip of Lake Superior touches both Minnesota and Wisconsin.

Most of my weather memories of those years are of severe cold and deep snow. The time our house got buried after a blizzard, and we had to exit from my upstairs bedroom window over the garage. (My father shoveled off the garage roof that night because the garage roof, weirdly, was flat.) The time one of my casual friends’ mascara-covered eyelashes froze shut after about thirty seconds outside. The time my own contacts fogged . . .



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