In Columbus, we only have pretend winter. To have real winter, you need to go north of the Mansfield snow belt line and hang out along the rim of the Great Lakes, where the gray of the skies merges neatly into the gray of Lake Erie and the gray, washed-out colors of the streets, and buildings, and sidewalks.
Even the landmark Rock and Roll Hall of Fame seems bleached of all color as it squats, dusted with snow, along the lakefront, with the sun only a pale, dim light in the sky. It’s hard to believe that the same shriveled orb that shines about as brightly as a streetlamp through the Cleveland cloud cover is pouring brilliant, radiant heat upon the Equator and the southern hemisphere as we speak.
When you walk around Cleveland on a January day, with the snow blowing and the slush piled on the sidewalks and the temperature down around the single digits and the wind cutting through you to the very core of your being, you begin to understand what winter really is. We really don’t quite get it in Columbus