Winter in Michigan

The wind came across frozen Lake Mitchell with a banshee shriek. Splinters of ice whistled through the brittle air and drove their way into every surface in view, covered the world in frigid white. Native Michiganders huddled deeper into the hearts of their homes, flickering television sets offering little in the way of warmth, but much in the way of distraction. How these people survive twenty, forty, even sixty years here I cannot fathom. I've been home for three months and can't wait to get away. There is no sunshine, no color, no reprieve from the endless cold and gray. They say the divorce rate spikes high in this time of year, and its no wonder. People stuck indoors together for weeks at a time, skin growing pale and clammy, fighting over paying the heating bill.
I grew up here, you know. As a kid I wore my (boy) cousins' hand-me-down snowpants and trekked through knee deep snow to go sledding. I got chapped cheeks, frozen digits, and pneumonia. I ate snow, melted it on top of the wood stove, and shook it out of my clothes for five months a year. Then my dad moved us to Arizona for the winters, and we were able to leave behind the gray and cold, trading it for sapphire skies and blooming deserts.
When we did move home, several years later, the winter didn't bother me for some reason. Snow driving sucked, always has, always will, but other than that I barely noticed it. Then I got married and started moving elsewhere: Ohio, southern Michigan, Traverse City. Winter is still in existence there, but nothing like it is here in Cadillac.
I have kids of my own now, who are fortunate enough to have girl snowpants. They love the ice, the cold, the frozen windswept lake. Maybe I've gotten too old, maybe too spoiled by mild winters elsewhere, I am not sure. All I know is that it's a wicked winter wonderland. And I still don't have my own snowpants.