The tide has turned.
As is the case most mornings, I was still half-asleep as I stumbled out my front door to climb in my car to begin a new day of work. It was Wednesday, which is our final deadline of the week, and promised to be both too long in terms of hours, and too short in terms of available Tums by the end of the day. I actually look forward to Wednesdays, however, because it’s fun to be able to see the culmination of everybody’s work throughout the week come together in a definitive and substantial form.
But I was pretty much stopped in my tracks as I neared my car.
Frost. That thin slice of frozen Heaven that magically settles on your car overnight was stuck to my windows. I could actually see the crystalization of the water droplets as I got closer, and I closed my eyes at the reality and let out a fairly prominent curse word as I pulled out my keys and unlocked the door.
Much to my delight, the firing up of my heater, mixed with a steady diet of running my wipers on high, was able to do the trick on the frost on my windshield. I was not as lucky with the back window, though, and had to scrounge around under my seats to find the scraper.
The scraper, I said.
My trusted Coastal Point calendar tells me that winter does not start until Dec. 21. Many people start throwing around the word “winter” as soon as the Thanksgiving holiday arrives. I, for one, keep the dawn of winter a little more open-ended. When I have to scrape my windows, it’s winter.
There are just certain activities that go with the respective seasons. It’s fall when I’m standing outside in a Ravens sweatshirt and looking at the endless supply of leaves on my yard. It’s spring when I put my heavy coat in the attic. It’s summer when Bob Bertram is laying out on the roof of the Coastal Point with tanning lotion slathered over every part of him that’s not being covered by a Speedo.
To our readers, let me apologize for putting that picture in your heads. It’s bad enough that those of us in this office have to be haunted by the visions of Bob sunning himself...
But I digress.
The seasons come, and the seasons go, but they all come equipped with their own little identities. Spring is a time for new beginnings, the Orioles and optimism in our hearts. Summer means those friends who forget we exist the rest of the year come to visit us when the beaches and amusements are open, and the action is hot and heavy at the World Series of Poker. Fall closes the book on the summer season, and is packed with football and sweater-weather. Winter is holidays, stress, college basketball and darkness.
We’re now entering the darkness.
I actually like the winter, especially in this area. It’s a little easier to move around the roads, it’s light out in the morning when I come in to work and the holidays just give everybody an extra little burst of ... well, something. I love cranking up the fireplace, sitting on the couch with a dog sleeping on my feet and a book in my hand, and breaking out the clothes that have had a long rest in the attic.
But the scraping is not fun.
I only got a small sample of scraping duties on Wednesday morning as the frost came off as soon as the scraper worked its way across the glass. But it won’t always be like that. No, there will be mornings when I’ve got one foot against my car for leverage, a cup of hot water in my hand to splash on the frozen glass and an inevitable fall to the ground as my other foot slips on the frosty driveway.
And, rest assured, Bertram will be out there with a camera.