It is amazing to me the things that are tied to memory. I could be lost completely in being a middle aged wife and mother, tied up in the tyranny of the moment, but the second I smell sawdust I am twelve years old visiting my father at work. The warm humidity of a tropical front always takes me back to our second summer in Georgia when Hurricane Floyd caused evacuations up and down the east coast and sent a collection of misplaced persons into the shelter of our church fellowship hall in Middle Georgia.
Today the temperature is hovering just slightly above freezing, the sky is the color of poorly washed socks and angry rain has been falling in petulant bursts all day. The few seasonal lights around my neighborhood are trying bravely to engender peace on earth and goodwill, but they just look a little tawdry. The road is glistening not in the friendly twinkle of a summer rain, but with the ominous sheen of potential slick disaster. For a few moments today it felt like I was back in college, experiencing a Vancouver BC winter. Just the thought makes me shiver.