Winter Musings

As long as I can remember every time we get a winter storm I'm regaled with stories of the legendary winter of nineteen-seventy-seven, seventy-eight. This winter is not remembered, as you might imagine, for being the year I was born. Rather, my birth is merely a passing footnote in the saga of one of the worst winters in living memory: "Seventy-Eight, the year you were born, now that was a bad winter." That sort of thing.

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