Winter is almost upon us once again and I dread it. I can already notice the tale-tale signs of the changing seasons as the days are growing shorter, cooler and less humid, and a certain breed of cricket has begun its mating calls late in the evening. When I was a child, winter would bring on this state of melancholy that would exasperate my parents. Now that I am older I can cope more adequately. I do look forward to the beautiful foliage that results from fall though.
Fortunately, here in the south, winter comes late. September is just another summer month and our first frost doesn’t arrive till mid to late November. Sometimes, it is even as late as December. We are also lucky that we never get snow here as well so don’t have to deal with that inconvenience. On the exceedingly rare chance it does snow just a few inches, it will completely shut down most of the Deep South and this small town.
One of the hardest aspects of dealing with my homeless days was the cold. I learned to read the weather and could, with reasonable accuracy, predict an oncoming cold front. Cold fronts brought brutal temperatures and cold rain that would chill you to the bone. It also meant many hours just lying in my tent, reading books, and whiling away the time while trying to stay warm until the rain had passed. The emerging sunlight after such a front as the clouds dissipated was a joyous occasion. I would sit outside my tent, beer in hand, and soak up the unlimited warmth of the sun. When you are homeless, even the littlest pleasures can seem so grand and enjoyable. I still try to keep my life now in perspective with those six months I lived in a tent in the dead of winter.
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