It was 81 degrees on Valentine's Day. And this while my grandparents in Oklahoma had just emerged from two weeks of house arrest enforced by cold piles of dense snow all around their house. While I watched longingly on YouTube and the news as people tried to drive and dig out in the Northeast. It's hard for me to believe it's February when I have to wear short sleeves.
Of course, by the time I took the picture, two days before Valentine's, the cloths and bucket should have been long removed. 80 degrees. The sno-cones were selling faster than they could make them.
My wool coat festers in the closet. A few nights ago I was putting long-sleeved shirts and dresses into a suitcase for storage, trying not to cover them with the tears that came because I couldn't tell when I would ever use them again.
In another few weeks I'll probably be so acclimated that I'll shiver just thinking about Boston! Alternatively, I'll be a puddle of sweat soaking into the dusty soil.