Tropical Frosty

When the cool hands of winter held Miami, grownups complained of the cold, of having to wear sweaters at night, of handing more money to Florida Power and Light on account of the electric blankets. Me and other kids knew better.

Winter was the peak of the dry season, the mosquito-free, mud free, humidity free time of the year when you could play hide and seek without ending up a bumpy, dirty, itchy sweat-puddle.

The jewel in the hand of winter was its icy frosts. Most people think of Miami as a tropical paradise, but when I was growing up it was more swamp than beach resort, more wild than pastel, more nature than man. Of course, I grew up on a small farm, which even in those days was rare. Still, back then Miami had texture, and at the peak of winter I always looked forward to the event of the year: the frosts. They’d come in just a few times each season but the memory of them has lasted me my whole life.

Mornings during Christmas vacation I’d wake up at the crack of dawn, not long after my farmer father, who was always up hours before the sun. I’d peer out the window, my back tense with hope and I’d jump excitedly at the sight of crystal dew. The droplets form on grass at night and as the temperature drops, they freeze. Every piece of green coated in an opaque white sheen. I couldn’t wait to get outside and stomp all over, leave footprints, grab leaves and blow off the frozen bits.

My favorite game was to take a blade of grass and slide it between my fingers so that the frozen dew would accumulate into little mounds on the tops of my knuckles. If I stared hard enough into the mounds I could almost see, almost feel what snow would be like. Kids played in the little mounds on my fingers, bears made snow caves and seagulls left footprints. I still have never seen a seagull leave a footprint on a mound of snow; does such a thing exist outside my childhood brain? The heat from my fingers quickly turned my wintry scenes into drip water so I’d pluck another blade and go at it again.

By mid-morning the sun would melt the frost everywhere except in the shade of the orange trees. I cheered for the resilient patches, quietly sending them my hope so they’d outlast the day, but eventually sunlight would get them. For the rest of the afternoon, the dew on grass and trees and dirt melted and dried. Winter Wonderland evaporated.