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.