Psalms of lament are being sent heavenward this winter. Like a kid, I’m hoping for a snow day today. The forecasters have gone apocalyptic again with inches of white fluff expected overnight. I wake at dawn and pull back the curtain, but not a flake has fallen.
This winter has been like that. The south digs out from yet another snowstorm. Boston has drifts that could bury a yeti. The blizzard of the century last month may have missed us New Yorkers by an order of two or three states, but it has been very cold—and those of us in the commuting crowd have learned new applications for the word “endurance.”
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