I will never move to the south. I have no desire to live among palm trees and year-round green grass (even though this winter still sees green in my back yard). I need the changing of the seasons. Yes I love the summer. I love camping and bonfires and nights on my porch watching kids bike up and down the street while firefly flash over in the park. But there is a sense of peace when fall comes. The colors explode. The winter coat is not yet needed but the knit cap and gloves start to become permanent accessories. A hoodie becomes your best friend. Fall brings the apple festival and colorful holiday window decorations. Fall is the last hurrah of the year. Then one day it’s all dead and brown. And it calms. It signals sleep and quiet. The first snow is pure magic. The first snow should be an official holiday. Who can work when those first few flakes start to drift down only to disappear as swiftly as they were born? Winter brings family gatherings and large meals, the satisfying sweat of shoveling the sidewalk, and the blanketed quiet after a fresh snowfall. Braving the treacherous roads to meet friends and share a pie and company while the world around you curls up under a thick white blanket. Spring is messy. Muddy and wet. It is the ultimate mood swing. One day teases you with chirping birds and warming sun only to wake the next day to howling winds and horizontal rain and ice that stings the cheeks red. Spring is also full of smells. The new grass, the mud, the food merchants that begin to open their front doors as wafts of fresh bread and spices float down the street. The days grow longer and the mind starts to dream of camping and bonfires and nights on the porch....

I like living in Wisconsin. I like living in Minnesota. The changing of the seasons is a cycle of my life that I would feel empty without. It affects those that live here in the deepest way. You can listen to a Bob Dylan song and know exactly what month that he wrote that song. You can feel the summer sun, see the October orange, taste the family feast, and smell the March mud with each word and harmonica note.

They say our climate is changing. Things are warming up. Winters are not winters anymore. Will my children know what it is like to walk down shoveled sidewalks where the snow on the sides is so deep it’s like walking through some secret cavern? Will they get to experience the excitement of testing out a new sled after Christmas dinner? What is childhood without riding a bike through the last remaining snow bank and skidding through mud?

There’s more melting away than just the winter snow.