Call him Old Man Winter, or maybe Jack Frost... Whatever name he goes by, he is my arch nemesis and he returned with a vengeance last night. Bastard.
I used to have a fairly amiable relationship with him. I loved him when I was a kid. The snow days he gave me were a joy. The huge mounds of powdery white stuff that I could use to build a friend or a fort or a wicked sled run, those were wonderful presents when I was a child.
As I grew older, he began to wear on me. Still, it wasn't horrible. He did his thing and I did mine. Hell, I lived in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan for four years. You can't survive up there if you spent your time seething over his effects. For one thing, you'd never get anything done. And I have to admit, the traces of his passing are always pretty to look at.
Over the years, though, the relationship has definitely soured. I mean, I moved out of Michigan to get away from his annoying games. (Florida was wonderful for the short time I lived there. Winter was a little chilly, but Jack really doesn't have more than a passing acquiantance with the area.) How I ended up back in his realm is a long story, but here I am. And I returned to find that Jack--my childhood friend turned arch nemesis--is still up to his old tricks.
After more than a week of unseasonable warmth, I awoke this morning to three inches of snow with an anticipated four more on the way. Yesterday it was in the fifties, for cripesake. It was sunny and beautiful. Which makes this just so wrong.
This isn't over Jack. You've won this time, but I will defeat you yet.
Maybe with a beach house on the Gulf. That'll show him.
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