Snow has come to the Southern lands. The title of this blog post sums up how I tend to feel about winter weather. These days, I am really missing the blizzardy Williamstown weather–the kind that means you have to take a few nips out of the ol’ flask before you head off to the library because it’s just that damn cold. (Was that just me?) I remember that winter weather at college reduced me to talking to myself. Mainly I would mutter, “It’s too fucking cold.” And then I took to abbreviating that: “It’s TFC. Christ. God. T…F…C! Jesus.” Nobody else found that as amusing as I did when I tried to explain it, so I just stopped trying to explain it. You had to be there, and you had to be me.
Fast forward a year to me driving across town the other day to get some mid-afternoon snackage at West Egg with A.Sals. (BTW: Bourbon chocolate milkshakes are okay any time of the year!) It’s 50 degrees and sunny, the kind of winter weather because of which people move to Atlanta in the first place. I roll down my windows to get a nice breeze, but that’s not enough, so I put on the air conditioning. AC. Short sleeves. December.
Anyway, I was thrilled to wake up at noon and see that it was snowing. I miss the nasty winter weather, chiefly because I do not deal with it for half of the year anymore. I threw on my winter uniform (black on black, fur hat) and headed out to–you guessed it–take some pictures frolicking in the snow.
And of course, I had to photograph the photographer, the dogs, and the proto-suburbia which envelops my postmodern existence. Chip closes his eyes whenever I take a picture of him recently. Smart little guy. I guess he subscribes to the idea that photos steal your soul.