Living somewhere where it snows was an entirely new concept to me. It just doesn’t snow in Houston, and if it does, it melts before it hits the ground. My parents have some footage of a thin millimeter-thick layer of snow on the ground in my backyard when I was a baby, but I don’t ever remember seeing snow.
As a child, I was a little like the children in the original King and I who didn’t believe in snow. As far as I knew it was something out of books and movies and it was so alien to me that I would have had no trouble believing that someone had simply made it up.
The first time I saw snow was when my high school took a winter break trip to Colorado. We stayed in Keystone and visited Breckenridge. It was like stepping into a movie. I remember stomping around in my hiking boots fascinated by how the snow moved and sounded under my feet. The southerner in me expected snow to feel like walking on piles of freshly picked cotton (I did actually play in piles of freshly picked cotton once as a child). The crunch I felt when my boot first touched the snow was completely unexpected. The trip seemed magical. Maybe that whole snow thing was real after all.
My first snow day was at Embry-Riddle freshman year. I told my family that although, technically I was an adult now, it was definitely not too late to experience the magic of a snow day for the first time in my life. One of my freshman roommates was from Florida, and also fascinated by the snow day. She took one of the signs that said “Class Canceled Until 12:40” and put it on the wall in her room.
Since freshman year, as I’ve spent less and less time back home, I’ve gotten used to and grown to love the weather in Prescott. If you’d asked me where I wanted to move after graduation at the end of my sophomore year, I’d have told you Houston – so I can get the heck out of the cold. Now, I am very open minded about where I go and I’m excited to experience different climates and cultures.