I write this and it is the third day of spring. Winds are coming in from the northwest at 15 to 20 miles per hour; temperatures are steady around 35 degrees; there is a light dusting of snow on the ground.
Less than two weeks ago it was sunny, 80 degrees, and I was wearing sandals. Now I am back to my steel-toed Docs and wool coat, driven back into my sodden winter-wear by this unforgiving bitch that is Mother Nature. Twenty-eight years of life double-fisting aerosol cans, eating from Styrofoam take-out containers, wallowing in a gluttonous expenditure of chlorofluorocarbons, and this is the harvest I reap from global warming? Fifty degrees colder and snow underfoot?
I will crush that groundhog and rip the shadow off its lifeless corpse. I will stake Jack Frost through the frosty heart with his own icicle nose. I will drive Old Man Winter back into his Arctic lair if I have to burn a hole in the ozone the size of Kansas.
This season must die. And with God as my witness, I will be warm again!