I love it when the weather turns and the restaurants start planting pansies in their flower beds. Then I know it isn't long till I'll be able to see my breath in front of my face.
My breeding is not appropriate to constant sunshine, I think. I freckle easily and sunburn at the drop of a hat--quite literally. My body longs for cooler climes, northeastern Europe, to be exact. Emotionally, I long for real seasons, anywhere that it actually snows.
Of course, I have a romanticized notion of snow gleaned from TV, movies, and childhood memories of Ohio. To me, it's that fluffy white stuff that falls as manna from heaven while Bing Crosby sings "White Christmas." That stuff that I used to roll into snowmen when I was six. But to my father, laboring with the heavy shovel to clean the front walk, I think snow was something less benign.
All the same, I don't understand people who retire to places like Florida and South Texas. My ideal would be Iceland.
I never did forgive daughter for breaking up with the guy whose family owned a ski lodge in Vail.