Du bist der Lenz, nach dem ich verlangte!
Die Walküre
, Act I

Winter is not supposed to be a season in Georgia.

Winter is when the Bermuda grass turns brown and it’s too cold to golf. Were the world our ideal, winter should be a weekend at most. Last year, it was that way. So was the year before that, as I remember it. My memory is so rarely wrong.

This last winter was overseasoned, too sharp for most tastes. Now, leaves spread, buds burst, boys sneeze. This, at last, is the time for an open window!

Explore posts in the same categories: Essays, Weather

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