“August is the beginning of winter.” So said Nick’s grandmother, and I think of her and her optimistic seasonal wisdom each August 1. (Though it’s hard to imagine winter, stuck as we are in serial heat waves here in New England this summer.) Seen above, some snows of yesteryear, which somehow I remember as being deeper and more intense. (Maybe because I was shorter then?) Earmuffs, hat and hood, I’m ready to pick up that Flexible Flyer, head to the sledding hill near our suburban home and fly until sundown. Just Rosebud and me.
How could your mother let you leave the house without mittens? I love the wagon wheel incongruously left behind by pioneer settlers in the front yard of the mid-century house with a fancy oriel window. I also love the yellowed edge on the left.
ReplyDeleteI remember those days Sandy. I used to sled in a huge canal behind our house in Wichita, Ks. Would start out about noon and stay out all day, come in tired and happy.
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