|Alphonse Mucha 1897|
|Alphonse Mucha 1896|
Mornings and early evening are the worst. Temperatures are so low in the morning, I creep out from under my two quilts, and race to the warmest room in the house. I put one foot after another into the warmest trousers I own, over long-janes and grab those socks. Even in the house I am wearing boots.
Will it never end?
I try to remember other winters that seemed so cold, so long, so treacherous for the front wheel drive automobile. I know they existed.
Was it the winter I commuted, first by car, then by bus, from Providence to Boston? I remember one night arriving at the bus terminal to find my car, literally buried. After digging her out, it seemed I was the single driver on the roads of the City.
Was it the winter of my first wedding anniversary when the snow was so high we walked rather than rode downtown in the road because it was the safest, and was absent of cars?
Or was it the year I was four and have a photograph of snow up to my waist, enjoying it!