The first time I saw snow was the year my family lived in Manhattan. My sister and I attended elementary school across the street from our building. We’d bundle up in our new winter coats, pants, mittens, and boots. Just one winter: getting used to the smell of wet things drying on the radiator, taking turns being freezing and hot. I remember you had to switch the car from one side of the street to the other. One day the Irish cop told my dad, “Not today, sir. Don’t ya know it’s TuBiShvat?” At least, that’s the story he told.
A longer version of this story was published here