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Winter is Coming
Ned Stark’s reminder hangs over my head every summer.
I grew up in a wonderful, magical place called Southern California.
In this mystical place, winter is a week or two in late December or Early January, where we get a little bit of rain. All of the broadcast news casters celebrate this by having a Stormwatch! — they position reporters at various locations throughout the Los Angeles metro area, in heavy windbreakers with their collars turned up, pretending to be drowned by the fraction of an inch of rain that’s coming down.
It’s literally a drizzle, Phil.
To be fair, that much rain usually turns Los Angeles into even more of a traffic nightmare, but still.
I now live in Western Pennsylvania, where winter takes up most of the year.
To be fair, I knew when I moved that the winters were going to be longer, and a lot snowier. That’s fine. I don’t mind the snow, as long as I don’t have to leave the house in it. As a cripple, it’s easier to not navigate in it, to deal with it as little as possible. And when I do have to leave, take lots of little baby steps. If I land on my ass, it’s going to take a whole song and dance to get back on my feet again.
What I didn’t expect was the solid wall of gray clouds that overtakes the skies from…
