Looking out of the window at work I see people still hesitant to adhere to the winter protocol. Mostly college students, boldly trudging through the ice crusted leaves in their flip flops and short sleeves, hunched over as though they could hold on to their fast dissipating body heat like a quarterback about to get sacked. Jack Frost is a linebacker out for blood.
I, on the other hand, look forward to colder weather. The shish shish sound of fallen leaves when you shuffle through them, the particular smell of fall and wood burning stoves. Drinking hot tea and cider. When I unpack my winter clothes, I greet each sweater, long wooly sock, and scarf that comes out of the plastic bin. I love to cozy up in a blanket and my dogs, put on some soft music, and watch the snow fall. I start to think of the holiday treats I will make to share with friends and neighbors. And of course, I start to plan my annual demented gingerbread house ( the past three years have been high security prison, strip club, and brothel).
Now, come February, I will grow weary of the snow, and will be waxing poetic about the spring. But that, my dear readers, will be another blog.