I lived in a winter-wonderland for four winters. My first winter was filled with a terribly romanticized affection for snow. By the time my last winter rolled around, I was ready to dump him and his excessive desire to hang around ’til April.
I grew up, however, in the Mid-Atlantic where winters are mild and summers are hot. This is what I moved home to recently. Normally, we’ll get two inches of snow and call it a season, compared to my previous lodgings where a 2 foot snow base was merely “moderate”. So, everyone thought it was funny that a month into my new residency, we got hit with a 24 inch snow storm.
Yesterday, everyone’s attitude turned from comically irritated to mad. My mild-weathered home received 30 inches of snow yesterday. To add it all up for you, that’s 54 inches of snow.
The aforementioned winter-wonderland? Hasn’t been getting any snow recently. Folks up north and folks down here alike are blaming me. Apparently I picked the wrong year to move south.
The memories which peaceful country scenes call up, are not of this world, nor of its thoughts and hopes. Their gentle influence may teach us how to weave fresh garlands for the graves of those we loved: may purify our thoughts, and bear down before it old enmity and hatred; but beneath all this, there lingers, in the least reflective mind, a vague and half-formed consciousness of having held such feelings long before, in some remote and distant time, which calls up solemn thoughts of distant times to come, and bends down pride and worldliness beneath it. — Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist