It's hard to imagine another December that has been as mild and snowfree as this one. Strangely, as December19th has arrived and there is just a dusting of snow on the ground, sure to be gone by noon, I find myself wondering why nostalgia for snow has suddenly hit me in my golden years.
I've spent Decembers where the snowbanks were higher than the people trying to get over them; where we couldn't get the garage door open because there was nowhere to put the snow piled in front of it; where even a down coat left you shivering for an hour after you got into the house; where you had to protect your face from the cold with a scarf that got ice-clad where you were breathing; I've had a 6 foot long stocking cap that I could pull down over my face, tuck into my neck and still have some left over to fly like a flag in the wind; I've owned every old or new-fangled feet warmer; the backs of my hands have cracked and bled starting in November and lasting until March. I can't count the number of times I've skidded into an intersection, honking my horn and simultaneously praying, or tried to remember if you drive into or against the skid on a hill.
How can I not be deliriously happy with this December weather?
Because we're not wired that way.