Dear Wigleaf,

I haven't lived in Minnesota for 16 years, but here I am, and everyone I meet keeps asking, Are you ready for winter? Can you handle the snow?

I laugh and say, I grew up here, I've come back every Christmas, I know—but do I?

If you were here, you'd buy snow tires. You'd get choppers and a North Face that goes over your butt. Me, I left my warmest coat in the Cities and can't find my thicker gloves and have never once changed tires for the weather. I assume I'll be fine, even though I've always run cold: My hands go white for no reason. My feet turn numb at random. I get full body shivers that a roommate once swore were contagious.

(To be fair—she did catch them.)

Maybe its dumb pride or just dumb, thinking we require no buffer against the places we're from. As though the climate must be built into our bodies and could never become strange.

In any case, it's still fall here, though the trees have shed all their yellow. The woods have gone from a glowing orb of light, to stripped down, stoic branches. The monks up the road welcome guests, and when I go, the sun has set through the glass by the end of evening mass.

I think you'd like it. I know, I know. The winters. But it can't be worse than. . . wait, remind me. Where are you from?

Your friend,

Jane