42 Dreams of Arizona Bay

I’m shrouded in gray and white. I can’t see anything. I can barely see the next traffic light, the lines in the road, the next car.
I drive very slowly because I can’t see. My hands grip the steering wheel tightly, tensely. Perhaps my knuckles are white too, but I can’t spare the time to look.

It’s like a snow whiteout, without the snow.

Fog is Fresno’s snow. Fog and rain. And on this recent night, the moisture was so thick that it left droplets on my windshield. It was so thick that it lasted throughout the next day and beyond.

And then a couple of days later, I feel nostalgia for snow and I can’t chase it away.

I was listening to an NPR podcast segment on snowflakes and sort of revisiting what you learn about them in school, only in more scientific, official detail. How they come in different types and that no snowflakes are alike is generally true but who can ever track down all the snowflakes in the world just to make sure?

And I thought with a twinge that I’d never be able to just go outside and look up into the sky and catch one in my hand, in my tongue, on my hair. To never look at one closely. Never be able to make a snowman. To fall back in a big pile of snow left from shoveling.

I technically live somewhere within driving distance of snow this very moment. But my car is not equipped to deal with driving up in the twisty, steep mountain roads. Even if I got chains for it, it really doesn’t have the power. And I’m sure if I tried to drive even in a light snow, my hands would grip the steering wheel even harder. Is it possible to squeeze your hands through a steering wheel entirely?

In practical terms, it is safe to say that in Fresno, I will never see snow stick to the ground. If I see it at all.

I guess I was feeling nostalgic for the kid feeling of snow: the one that doesn’t have to drive in it. Who doesn’t despise its dirty gray shadow of slush. Who doesn’t have to shovel in it. Who doesn’t have to worry about driving on a patch of ice and flying into a ditch. Who doesn’t hate months of bleak, depressing, cold weather.

I do know that as an adult, I might like to indulge in a brief amount of playtime in the snow. Forget my age, forget that I hate being cold, and then wet as the snow starts melting from my body heat.

Today, it was warm enough here that we had the car windows rolled down. I’m not going to claim it’s shorts weather, nor am I going to say I’m frolicking around half-clothed. But it was sunny and warm, a change from Fresno’s frequent cloudy skies, its version of winter.

And Fresno has this changing smell at night. The thick fog often has its own choking fragance, of dank, of smelly laundry, or of leaves burning.

I can miss my old winter without liking the new, but neither do I want my old winter back.

P.S. to Rachel: I’ve been reading that parting gift you gave to me more than three years ago. The little fun book of snow poems, photos and facts. That’s how sick I am. Just thought you should know.