Weather! I like weather. Everyone talks about it. In deep summer, they say, “It’s too hot.” In the bleak midwinter they say, “It’s too cold.”
I confess that my first husband insisted that once in the spring and once in the fall, I’d announce: “It’s been a perfect day.”
There is little rare so rare as day in June and while I find soft summer days glorious, I’m never so contented as wrapping my cave around myself to wallow in the dark days of winter, back to the womb. The light is more conducive to reading or handwork in that dim world. Sun is often much too sassy, eager to show what the word “bright” actually means. While sun on snow is often breathtaking in its glory, it is often painful. I’m not into pain. I don’t even pluck my eyebrows.
Even as a fall and winter girl, the scent of coming spring - usually sometime in late February in the Midwest - stirs me with its fragrant promise of melting snow and the first robin making it official.
Each season has something magnificent about it - and for slugs such as I, nothing beats a dull day where shopping for food is put off . . . later . . . I’ll shop for food later.