We're deep in the throes of what is in my opinion the worst time of the year. This year, the weather has been especially cold and smoggy. We're all cycling through various little flus and head colds. When Mark and I come downstairs in the morning to assess the coughing and sniffling anew, we find a miserable, blanket-wrapped child huddled over each heat vent.
A couple summers ago, we got tickets to a Salt Lake Bees baseball game. The sky was blue, the cheap hot dogs tasted great, and mountains were beautiful across the valley. Late in the game, when the sun had finally set and the crowds were thinning, I saw a man who had kicked off his flips-flops and propped his bare feet over the seat-back in front of him. He wiggled his toes luxuriously in the evening breeze. Even then, when weeks and weeks of permafreeze seemed impossible, I thought, "That's the image I'm going to remember next winter." And I have.
As it is, we comment on the balmy weather whenever it breaks about twenty-five degrees. A ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds is reason for celebration. And a night with no puking or coughing is an accomplishment.