Finally.
Snow up north.
Sixty-five degrees here.
The windows are open (one of them out while the carpenter
repairs it). The sounds of sawing
and drilling flow out of the window and down the street from my house.
The clomping of the horses and buggies. Just nine months ago, I was a tourist
bumping through the streets of Charleston. From my perch in the wagon, I viewed those I suspected to be
residents. Oh, how I envied
them. How could I ever have such a
life?
The dog’s ears lift.
A distant staccato solidifies into the echoing tread of horse
hooves. From the wagon, the
tourists look into my windows. Perhaps
they are thinking, “How the hell could anyone ever live here?”
Winter does not have much of a hold here. Camellias bloom. Pansies. Snapdragons.
Even a handful of roses.
Even January is lush in Charleston. I am slapped by foliage as I stroll down the sidewalks. Far, far better than being slapped by
an icy wind.
The only thing icy here is the coffee. I cannot restrain myself each afternoon
from beelining to one of my local coffeehouses (or even Starbucks), politely demanding
an iced coffee (in my new southern drawl), then heading down a new sidewalk.
Finally.
