Her explanation made quite a bit of sense, but still, if my teacher AND weatherman said it was Indian Summer…

“Did you just make that up?” I asked. “About it not being Indian Summer until after it snows?”

“No,” my mother said, “I did not just make it up. That’s what MY mother and father always said.”

My mother's parents, Nils and Inga, were immigrants from Norway who had died long before I was born.

“Does Norway have Indian Summer, too?” I asked.

My mother shook her head.

“Why not?”

“No Indians,” she replied.

We had learned in school that Native Americans were first people who lived here. And if they were American, then of course they wouldn’t live in Norway, too.

“Did Grandma Inga and Grandpa Nils know any Indians?” I asked.

“No,” Mom said, “although there were still a few in this part of Wisconsin when my grandpa first came to live here. Or so I’ve heard.”

“Did they call it Indian Summer?” I asked.

“Who?” Mom inquired.

“The Indians who were here when your grandpa was around,” I said.

My mother shook her head as she finished peeling last potato. “I wouldn’t have foggiest notion,” she replied.

Later that fall, it snowed a little bit. After snow melted and weather turned warm again for a while, I could see what Mom meant about how if it snows, we think it’s going to be winter, but then if weather turns nice again, it seems more like summer.

Nowadays I often hear weather forecasters proclaiming that a sunny, warm, fall day is Indian Summer.

I know better, though.

If my grandparents — and my mother — believed that snow was a prerequisite for Indian Summer, well — that’s good enough for me.

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