Winter is Lurking
“Now is the winter of our discontent.” William Shakespeare
I hate winter. Hate cold, snow, ice, coats, boots…snow, did I mention snow? Having exiled myself to the Midwest, the last ten years have been miserable from about the end of October until April most years. I am convinced that the only reason this part of the country is inhabited is because pioneers, while pushing southwest got their wagons stuck in the muddy banks of the Missouri River and then winter came and all their oxen froze to death. They were stuck, stranded in the icy wilderness. Then when it finally did warm up a little, they discovered corn, made whiskey and lost all their ambition to leave.
The girl I married was from here but her father had the good sense to leave and move to Texas when she was just 13. He moved to Texas to avoid the cold. He was a smart man. There is nothing remotely redeemable about living someplace where you could die from locking yourself out of your car. The descendants of the owners of the unlucky oxen teams talk about how much they look forward to the first snow and how pretty it is. I think they’re lying. I think they put on an act because they own property here and their DNA won’t let them formulate the thought of leaving.
In Texas, where I was born, when it snows, which is seldom, at least we have the good sense not to get out and drive around in it. Here, just after the first snowfall, all the people get in their cars and immediately go someplace. About 10 percent of them run into something w