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Return to Bylines THE HARVARD EXTENSION SCHOOL WRITING PROGRAM PREVIOUS | CONTENTS | NEXT Not without My Mother Ann Sheybani I was chicago blues convinced that my mother was born without a soul. She belonged to the school of thought that children should be chicago blues outside at all times, regardless of the weather, allowing some good fresh air to circulate in the lungs. On winter days she would wrap me in piles of winter gear and shove me chicago blues 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 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 in Connecticut, I slid on the ice patch that was my front lawn and broke my arm. I hobbled to the front door and butted the glass with my head.
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