I stood at the bus stop this morning, a chill in the air and a suspiciously autumnal look to the sky and thought to myself, ‘Now where’s my mittens?’
It’s a full 30 degrees colder this morning than it was just two weeks ago.
Oh, September, you sly little thing you.
Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I stand before you, a woman covered fore to aft in layers upon layers of thick, weather-defiant clothing.
The Farmer’s Almanac, always disturbingly accurate, predicts another dreadful winter, much like last year’s dreadful winter, only with more snow.
I have cousins online comparing SAD light boxes.
“This is the first year,” my son says, “that I’m not looking forward to winter.”
“Me, too,” I say.
“There just wasn’t enough summer,” he says. “I’m not sick of it yet.”
And ain’t that the truth.
Of course, it goes against the code, living in Minnesota, to face an upcoming season in this manner. We’re a hardy people, dammit, and buck up, won’t you? Why, our great-grandmothers hung wash that froze on the line! They subsisted on animals they butchered themselves and root vegetables they kept in a root cellar!
They wrested a living out of the land – frozen and unfrozen – with nothing but steely determination; large, well-muscled sons; and the knowledge that there was nothing they could do about it!
It was 42 degrees at the bus stop this morning.
If you need me, I shall be in a hot bath until spring.