Every year the day comes when I can no longer stand winter. This morning I looked out my bathroom window at the same old icicles, and they weren't pretty anymore. I was sick of winter. It always happens.
March is when enough old snow has accumulated to make walking difficult, especially in front of houses owned by people who never shovel. Instead of being fluffy and white, the snow has became hard-packed and speckled with junk: leaves, branches, garbage. When the streets are wet they're covered with black oily slush; when they're dry they're disfigured with huge psoriatic rings of salt. Birds tweet and squirrels come out of their trees even though they know better.
Every time I go out of doors, or come indoors, I need to go through the elaborate routine of bundling up or stripping off. Winter has already given us a few good snowstorms, which are at least worth looking forward to. My Safe-T-Salt bag is almost empty and it's hard carrying a full one home. More than anything else I want to see grass.
Do you hear me, Jack Frost? Finish your wine and your boring story and go home.
3 comments:
Yes.
Speaking of icicles, ever read "The Vane Sisters"?
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Mmm, no, but I did have a vain sister!
Actually she wasn't vain at all, but I just wanted to say it.
"The Vane Sisters" is a story by VN, originally published in The New Yorker, although Katherine White initially rejected it until Nabokov explained the key to the story, which involves the word "acrostic." The surprise hidden at the end of the story is the key to the most plausible explanation of "Pale Fire" that I have heard so far.
A thought just occurred to me--I have a friend who is the poet laureate of this state, and while I don't live next door to him, I have written about his work. Now if only I can remember where I hid the crown jewels...
E, not ck
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