It’s no secret. I hate winter. The only time I could peek over the lip of the cup of liking it was when I was a child and it got me out of school.
Even though I missed twelve winters by relocating to Southern California in 1980, I’ve still seen some tough ones. I remember the paralyzing winter of ’77-’78. I remember it because the USA was mired in the depths of the energy crisis, and Indiana State University decided that the heat in the dorms would run only during daylight hours. So, if you wanted to sleep, you had to scramble under the covers in three layers of clothes and a haz-mat suit.
This winter has grated on my nerves like a hillbilly trying to speak Chinese. At first, I was just sad. I wasn’t looking forward to shoveling like a ditch digger, and stumbling around as if my diet consisted primarily of scotch. The series of snowstorms following the start of 2014 made me depressed. I tried to choke myself to death, but my fingers kept cramping up. Now, we’ve got another round of snow/ice coming up Sunday. Now, I’m just angry.
I hear the thoughts out there. “Move”, you’re saying. Well, this isn’t prime time TV where a shoe sales clerk can take off on a trip to Hawaii impromptu, or daytime soaps where there doesn’t seem to be any poor people. Besides, I’m as old as Moses would be if he were living today. I made my last start-over twenty years ago when I moved back here.
Well, no matter how angry, depressed, or sad I might be, the storm is coming unless God, Mother Nature, or Chuck Lofton does something about it. I’ll scrape ice, shovel snow, and stumble about. Spring is right around the corner. I hope.