Ah, how the seasons change. Barely two weeks ago I was selling ice cream to tourists, dying from the heat put out by the flat grill, and dreaming of snow. Today I'm bundled up in a hoodie with slippers on my feet. This is what happens when you travel north. You go up a lousy 1.99 degrees of latitude and suddenly the temperature is ten degrees cooler and the trees are beginning to change colors. At night you can practically hear Jack Frost doing his practice runs, fogging up my car windows to prepare me for the ice to come.
I both fear and long for the snow to come. When it's thick on the ground I like to find a spot where a snowplow has sheered through a drift and figure out how many times it has snowed. It's fairly easy to figure out. All you have to do is count the thin layers of brown sand in between the sheets of white. Oh, and Christmas! It's not even Thanksgiving and I'm thinking of Christmas. Mostly because I'm looking forward to seeing Handel's Messiah performed at the local theater, but also because Christmas is my favorite holiday.
Once Christmas is over and true winter begins, I know my tune will change. I shiver and grumble through January, but when February arrives I begin to roar my snow hatred to the heavens. In February there is no sun. The clouds cover all in a blanket of gray that lightens and darkens depending on the time of day. You shiver and freeze and see yourself crack and become crazed. Driven mad by temperatures of 15 degrees (-9 for you Celsius users) we begin to think that 30 (-1) is warm. People begin to sunbathe outside in bathing suits and wear shorts with no jacket. As soon as the ice begins to break up into the canal we go, despite the fact that it's a sure way of getting hypothermia. Desperate to escape the confines of family and home, people take to the streets, coming up with any reason to stay outdoors.
But it isn't winter yet. Summer is waning and fall is on the rise. So tonight I shall sit out on the front porch in my hoodie and slippers and sip rum and coke while Kate and I try to coax the Cat-Guy's kitties to come over for a visit.
And tonight I'll dream of snow.
I both fear and long for the snow to come. When it's thick on the ground I like to find a spot where a snowplow has sheered through a drift and figure out how many times it has snowed. It's fairly easy to figure out. All you have to do is count the thin layers of brown sand in between the sheets of white. Oh, and Christmas! It's not even Thanksgiving and I'm thinking of Christmas. Mostly because I'm looking forward to seeing Handel's Messiah performed at the local theater, but also because Christmas is my favorite holiday.
Once Christmas is over and true winter begins, I know my tune will change. I shiver and grumble through January, but when February arrives I begin to roar my snow hatred to the heavens. In February there is no sun. The clouds cover all in a blanket of gray that lightens and darkens depending on the time of day. You shiver and freeze and see yourself crack and become crazed. Driven mad by temperatures of 15 degrees (-9 for you Celsius users) we begin to think that 30 (-1) is warm. People begin to sunbathe outside in bathing suits and wear shorts with no jacket. As soon as the ice begins to break up into the canal we go, despite the fact that it's a sure way of getting hypothermia. Desperate to escape the confines of family and home, people take to the streets, coming up with any reason to stay outdoors.
But it isn't winter yet. Summer is waning and fall is on the rise. So tonight I shall sit out on the front porch in my hoodie and slippers and sip rum and coke while Kate and I try to coax the Cat-Guy's kitties to come over for a visit.
And tonight I'll dream of snow.
