A Verbose Recanting of the Due Process of Seasonality

Global warming has, in past years, reduced the reality of winter and turned the 6 foot snowdrifts of my youth into dwarfed slushy grey piles along the highway, but this great Green Wooden Monkey Year spent no time enveloping the fine streets and outlying farmland of Erie, Pennsylvania with a three foot blanket of pure white and magickal.

My place of business is a television/radio station, sitting like a mad scientists haven deep in the forests of Northwest Pennsylvania, back a long, thin road, over a bridge and under a canopy of birch, pine, oak and maple trees, each one’s limbs covered top and bottom with the cloudy fluff of frozen rain and looking like an evil snow magi’s bony wraith fingers parting to permit those true of spirit and brave of heart to cross over that rickety bridge, all the while waiting to snatch up the souls of the non-believers who might wander abnormally from the main drag, perhaps looking for grandma’s house as they are clawed, eyeballs freed from their skulls, horribly to a winter grave.

Rejoice in the frigid climes, those of you fortunate enough to be entrapped in their uncanny returning momentum, always in the spirit of Christmas, keeping us entranced with holiday magic until we can sufficiently exchange items from WalMart and unwrap them from their festive packaging, only to bore of them the next day. And with that new day comes the realization that snow and ice are the harbingers of unwarranted caution, turning a lovely autumn stroll through the park into a painful, wrapped up peregrination.

Up Next: morning