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November 27th 2010    Tim Candler

    I thought indoors very chilly, felt the shivers, thought my toes would fall off, then looked at the thermometer which read seventy one degrees.   Seventy one degrees should not feel cold to a person wearing socks and three layers, but when seventy one degrees does feel cold to a person so well dressed, it means that winter for him has arrived.

    A sober making and depressing thought for one who in the interest of mental health and dignity has bravely attempted to ignore a future that unhinges him.

    

    Granted I am winter sensitive.  Delicate to cold.  Frail like the bloom of Morning Glory.  But I am now quite convinced I came from a breed of person who generations ago hibernated until it was time to plant the Potatoes.  Why else in winter have I always been ready to go back to bed by about noon.

    Ominous to note that last year winter began for me on December 5th.   Which is a whole week from now.  As well this past Spring Forsythia blooms came a whole week later than the year before.  So already I am of a mind to think of winter as having stolen a fortnight.

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