A series of winter storms struck the northeast in January and February. Offices and schools were closed and weather forecasters televised their apologies — because, apparently, it was all their fault.
And I felt pure, honest joy.
A secret fear had been festering over the past few years: I thought I was losing my capacity to enjoy winter. Perhaps the little boy within had finally burned his sled. But not to worry. The temperature plummeted to five degrees on one morning and the snow crunched beneath my feet as I shoveled — and I was loving it. The air was so crisp; the physical work was exhilarating; the sunrise over the snow was breath-taking. it was a “true winter,” the kind I regularly experienced when I lived further north.
I now realize that my recent winters in Connecticut were not too cold; they were not cold enough. I understand why others do not like winter and I mean this as no slight; but, for me, I feel like I’ve been re-introduced to an old friend.
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