I'm trying to remember the good times.
The cool, carefree days in sweatshirts and jackets. The cascading water, straight through the hose to the buckets. The easy flow of animals in and out of fields still tinged with green grass and bramble stems. In and out of doors that slid easily on their tracks, back, and yes, forth.
The bare hands.
The sleep without worry.
Even the mud.
The promise of an endless stream of the same simple joys, straight through the winter that wasn't.
Yes, yes, ok, I admit it.
He never actually promised.
We were warned.
They all said, "Mid-January -- after that we don't know. Other forces could drive him away."
Mr. Arctic Blast.
Two degrees Fahrenheit.
Right on schedule.
|George: We don't mind. We don't own any sweatshirts. It's parkas or nothing for us.|
|Bo Sheep: Yeah, not so crazy about the mud actually. You try schlepping around in it all day every day in bare feet.|
|Clementine and Pink: Really, it's all about the hay. Did you bring the hay?|
|Clementine: Hang in there Mom. He'll be back.|