This is a beautiful part of my memory of growing up in Cleveland — by February, the weather has been so absurd for so long that you no longer even think about it. There’s no complaining. Nobody talks weather. It’s just cold, and it will always be cold, and there’s snow everywhere, and there’s more snow coming, and there will always be snow on the ground, and it will never melt, it will never ever get warm or green ever again. That’s why spring always felt like a beautiful surprise. There is no better season on Earth, I am convinced, than spring in Cleveland (or Buffalo or Detroit, etc.). The best weather days in my memory was always that first semi-warm day of Cleveland spring when I could wear tennis shoes outside and I felt like I could jump four feet in the air.