Wednesday, we were shin-deep in thick snow. A wondrous thing happened: cars in the street moved toward their destinations with neither surprise nor trepidation visible on the faces of their drivers. In the aisles of the local Safeway, no frenzied shoppers were dashing down the aisles screaming We’re all gonna diiiiiie!
As of today — the Sunday after the snow — all passers-by are reduced to staring at a patch or two of the slush hiding in the shadow of a building and noting to themselves, “Hmm, not all gone yet, I see.”
Maybe the mental scars have simply not been able to manifest themselves in my consciousness yet. Either that, or I’ve lived in Ohio for too long.
Spring — the arrival thereof — has duly commenced here in southwest Ohio. I try never to rely solely on the weather when calculating things like the arrival of a warm season. I depend on other, surer signs: a small bout of insomnia, and a fit of cleaning.
Thankfully, both signs have now occurred, and I am recovering from them. I have just picked about 150 pounds of books to be sent to the used book store. Probably more is to come. I depend too much on my Kindle, so I don’t need paper copies. Besides, how many worn old copies of Agatha Christie does on need to keep, anyway?