“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.
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