Canadian Geese in a CT cornfield. -by A. Landisman
I just scraped two inches of ice off my car while being pelted with freezing rain and standing in four inches of snow and slush. It’s only been two days since the last mess.
I think I want a divorce – from Connecticut. I don’t think I’m strong enough to endure this abuse and become a true New Englander.
I’ve tried. For ten years, I’ve tried to make this relationship work. I’ve compromised my lifestyle, forgiven the luxury taxes as a personality quirk and believed that with enough counseling, our differences could be resolved. I would love to say each year makes me stronger, happier and better at coping with winter, but it seems to have only made me bitter and achy.
It’s so bad this year, I can’t stop bitching about it to everyone I see. I may even have to stop writing until the Spring thaw.
I think it’s genetic. I’m not supposed to be a New Englander. Maybe some of us are destined to whimper, cry and buckle under the cold. By mid-February every year I’m longing to escape. I fantasize about throwing the kids in the car and driving non-stop to Mexico. I browse real estate listings in Santa Fe daily.
I think it’s in my blood. According my DNA, I should be riding a scooter down the Amalfi Coast saying ciao! to friends and stopping to sip espresso at street cafe.
Amalfi Coast, Italy
Yet, here I am, wearing six layers of clothing and still shivering. Here I am looking up at the grey sky and struggling to keep it from seeping through to my soul. If I get any crankier about this, I will have to pack up and flee this state in the night, leaving Connecticut a Dear John letter, making sure it knows exactly why I left and precisely how much winter sucks here. Doesn’t it know there are other states by the sea, states that perhaps won’t be so physically and emotionally abusive?
What New England is, is a state of mind, a place where dry humor and perpetual disappointment blend to produce an ironic pessimism that folks from away find most perplexing. – Willem Lange
