I woke up to a frigid morning, prompted by my legs announcing that the cover on the bed had fled to the neutral country of the floor, and that they were in effect, freezing.
The cooler weather always arrives here overnight. In fact, it's rare that we ever get a front during the day. Bundling through the cracks and sills during the pitch of the night, it unpacks all of its trappings in a groaning symphony of windy gusts, and greets you in the morning, sitting in your favorite spot with its tousled hair and sloppy, wind capped grin.
My closet is woefully ill-equipped to handle such a procedure, and an excursion to external territories, in search of warmer garb, becomes imminent. Armed with a mug of hot tea, I trot to the storage shed, cursing the wind as it blows sticker burrs into my socks, shuffling through a river of fallen leaves that has appeared miraculously overnight.
The shed is warm from the previous night, and the shadowy forms of boxes stare out at me, daring me to begin and search for the prize. After much arranging, I find a box of winter clothes, and promptly begin prospecting.
Winter clothes are like old friends. Folded the previous year and unceremoniously packed away, they have waited, their arms wrapped around memories of cold weather escapades. Lifting them from their lair, reminiscent memories and smells drift around me. Burying my face into a warm turtleneck, I can taste Landshark Lager, drape lights upon the eaves, and see the warm flicker of a football game, deep within a house christened by a misty November evening. A soccer balls rolls merrily from my reach as Thomas charges it from across the street, and Kristi calls that supper is ready from the porch; pork chops with macaroni and cheese.
I fill my arms with warm winter blankets and furry skull caps.
Slipping into a warm jacket, I feel secure, almost festive.
The cold weather is here! Let new adventures begin!
Book Review: Thirtyfour Campgrounds
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