I was born in southern California and lived about as close to the Tijuana border as possible. Three feet of seven stretchable acres of my grandfather’s farmland was taken to the “other side” when the border fence was built. Our family farm was also located so close to the Pacific Ocean you could smell the surf but not hear the sound. Which brings me to…snow. The weather kind.
It doesn’t snow south of San Diego seven miles from the beach. Nor does it snow on that inland sandy patch of ground called the Tijuana Valley used for growing tomatoes, onions, radishes and all things green above and below top soil level. If snow happens (the weather kind) it happens in a blink. Is gone in less. Of course, I’m remembering from a long time ago and perhaps things have changed. The weather. The occurrence of snow in and around the Tijuana Valley of southern California. I rather doubt it.
I moved north not because it had more snow and southern California didn’t have much if any, but because that was where we were going to make our new home. I didn’t know about the bonus of snow until it happened. I thought it happened a lot. Which meant it happened more than…never. Which is what I knew. Maybe it didn’t snow every year. It just happened a lot more than I had ever seen. Ever. It was a big deal to me.
A huge and very big deal.
It was exciting and I’m not ashamed to admit (confess) I absolutely went over the moon when it snowed. Then. In the early days.
And now. Still. To. This. Day.
Which brings me to my Daughter. She was born here and knows about all that snow stuff. “It’s only weather, Ma’am,” she tells me. But I know. I know she is as excited as I am about this white weather stuff called snow. Know how I know? Because she calls me. No matter what hour day or night. The telephone will ring and I will answer.
“It’s snowing,” she’ll say with a smile. She can hear my own smile through the whiteness of the day or night. That unspoken binding declaration between Mother and Daughter of I’m-going-to-call-you-when-it-snows.
Which brings me to my Mother. My Reader knows about my Mother because I’ve mentioned her before. She’s in that in-between memory place. She calls when she needs something. To complain. To be grumpy. She doesn’t think about the weather. Mother remembers my phone number but often not my name. I got a very early morning call last week. Too early. I figured the worse. I answered the telephone. Mother called to say…