The calendar still says its fall. A look out the window clearly tells you that the hill where we live here in Vermont does not believe in the calendar. Winter has arrived. We have not had any “major” snow, but everyday there are flurries, which keep accumulating. The other day when things got warmer outside, into the 40s, we were guaranteed that the night would be cold and the slush which had accumulated everywhere would turn into ice, not just ice, not black ice, but rut ice. The tire marks and footprints and paw prints that were in the slush froze immortalized in time for now. Now when you drive out of the driveway and onto the road, you travel where others have gone before you, merely because of the rut ice and the fact that you have absolutely no choice in the matter.
According to the calendar, winter is still weeks away, but not here on the hill. It is rather amusing that you leave here all bundled and scarved and mittened and by the time you reach the bottom of the hill, the snow is gone and by the time you reach the town 6 miles to the bottom from our house, you would agree with the calendar and believe that it really, truly is still autumn. But here, on the hill, we live in a different world and evidently a different weather pattern as well. And I like that.