I have far too often the memory of a goldfish; that is to say, just about no memory at all. It's been snowing since Sunday says the meteorologist but I'm pretty sure that it's been snowing for weeks if not years before then.
I have lived in New England for twenty-three winters and I am keenly aware of the difference between palm trees and pine trees but that doesn't mean I have to go gently into that snow-covered night.
Like my neighbors, I've developed an ability to shovel snow i my sleep which doesn't thrill the people for whom I work, mainly because (I think) I snore and keep others at work awake.
I should be grateful we in Southeastern Connecticut are on the low ends of the snowfall accumulations, and perhaps I am at some level, but even that knowledge doesn't keep me from being that whiny guy who bleats in self-pity over how hard my life is. And yes, I am mindful I am NOT outside for most of these days and have a home and a hearth to which to retreat.
There's a piece of folklore about all the words for snow some Eskimo tribes have-and I have nearly the same number but most of mine cannot be said in mixed company. And no, I don't know how many words there are for hot and humid days, like the ones we have in August for weeks stretching at times into the same number of years our current snowy weather feels like.
Eventually, this, too, shall pass. And I'm hoping we call a five-minute pause in the activities of the shovel brigade to celebrate the arrival of summer should that ever actually happen. It's reaching a point where I've forgotten what color the sidewalk in front of the house once was. But I'm more convinced than ever what color I will want it to be.