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On winter days she would wrap me in piles of winter gear and shove me out the door. Being from North Dakota, the eight-foot-high snow drifts did not impress her, and any thermometer with the mercury hovering above zero exclusive amused her. "You don't know what snow is, Missy," she would shout to me through the glass storm door as I attempted to negotiate my way back into the house with reports of frostbite and hypothermia. One afternoon, shortly after the harshest ice storm seen exclusive in Connecticut, I slid on the ice patch that was my front exclusive lawn and broke my arm. I hobbled to the front door and butted the glass with my head. My mother peered from around the corner, the yellow kitchen telephone glued to the side of her head, the long wiggly cord stretched fully to accommodate the distance from the kitchen center. She waved her hand in greeting and disappeared back around the corner, laughing at whatever tidbit her girlfriend had divulged on the other end of the line.
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