freeheelwilly
02-03-2006, 12:22 PM
Today it's gray.
The warm drizzle on my windshield this morning mocked me. The brown, muddy lawns scoffed at me. The open water on Lake Champlain ridiculed me. They taunted me with my own words, exuberantly proclaimed in November. Waaaaay back in November. Before I knew any better. Before I experienced January. Before the cruel vagaries of that most fickle of the empirical sciences, meteorology, visited upon me its unique brand of misery. Before reality sunk in.
“I’ve got a feeling we’re in for an epic season!”
“This will be the one!”
“We’re due!”
November. So far away now. We were young then. Brimming with hope; expectant with promise.
Young.
Wide eyed.
Uninitiated.
Blissfully bereft of the knowledge that burdens us now. Our collective mood unsullied by the rains of January. Unaffected by the merciless advance of a seemingly endless parade of low pressure systems which track, unerringly, to our west bringing copious quantities of snow to such winter sports capitals as Cleveland, Ohio and Gary, Indiana.
The meteorologists assure us that change is in the offing and that, before very long, our precious hills will be awash with powder, our favorite trails choked with snow. And I want to believe.
I so desperately want to believe.
But today it’s gray. And tomorrow it surely will be gray again.
The warm drizzle on my windshield this morning mocked me. The brown, muddy lawns scoffed at me. The open water on Lake Champlain ridiculed me. They taunted me with my own words, exuberantly proclaimed in November. Waaaaay back in November. Before I knew any better. Before I experienced January. Before the cruel vagaries of that most fickle of the empirical sciences, meteorology, visited upon me its unique brand of misery. Before reality sunk in.
“I’ve got a feeling we’re in for an epic season!”
“This will be the one!”
“We’re due!”
November. So far away now. We were young then. Brimming with hope; expectant with promise.
Young.
Wide eyed.
Uninitiated.
Blissfully bereft of the knowledge that burdens us now. Our collective mood unsullied by the rains of January. Unaffected by the merciless advance of a seemingly endless parade of low pressure systems which track, unerringly, to our west bringing copious quantities of snow to such winter sports capitals as Cleveland, Ohio and Gary, Indiana.
The meteorologists assure us that change is in the offing and that, before very long, our precious hills will be awash with powder, our favorite trails choked with snow. And I want to believe.
I so desperately want to believe.
But today it’s gray. And tomorrow it surely will be gray again.