Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. It is 61° outside where I am now.
As a kid, the best part of Thanksgiving was dad taking me and my brother sledding on the big hill to get out of mom's hair while she was making our holiday meal.
Weather, it turns out, is arbitrary.
61°, while there should be some science on how it should make humans feel, turns out to be experienced completely different based on age, place and attitude.
I have a husband who is always telling me how great we have it having moved to Florida where it is always warm and, most of all, there is no snow for him to shovel.
He tells me about the fine weather a lot as if to convince me that residing in 61° at Thanksgiving is a compelling reason to be happy.
"You should be happy", he says
I smile to please him but my mind is wrapped up in the smells and comfort of being swaddled in two layers of clothes under my coat snow kicking up on my bright red cheeks zipping down a hill head first thinking I really could sense the fragrance of mom's turkey somewhere in the distance.