The Winter of our Discontent

Corny title. Corny content. But I did want to firmly establish in this quasi-journal which (I hope) my children and grandchildren can refer to if they want to have something about me and their grandfather preserved when we are no longer around to tell them, that there was something very special about the winter of 2013-2014. Hopefully it will not be when one of them is writing a dissertation about the origins of global warming/freezing or flooding. A few years ago I made a successful attempt to locate the members of the Bedford College, London, department of Classics, graduating class of 1962. Their stories were different, but as they wrote about their post-college years, a number of them used the abysmal winter of the early sixties as a kind of benchmark.

I really do hate to write about weather, but this winter in Detroit was special. It was bad enough that our former mayor (and a number of his cronies) was tucked away in prison, that the city was bankrupt, that the horrendous state of education, the lack of lighting and transportation had become subjects of legend, that the the contents of the Art Institute were being held hostage, but here, according to Time magazine, is the final ignominy. My whole life is turned upside down. I cannot just run out to the library or the mail. Cold weather and/or cold breezes can cause my facial condition to flare up. Actually, cold doesn't seem to be a trigger for me, but just in case I swathe my lower face in a warm scarf and only venture out in a hijab-like garment. That is after I have put on boots, a puffy jacket and warm gloves.

I was going to be positive and search for a photo of Grosse Pointe in the snow, which I must admit can be be beautiful. The trees, the lake . . . I was waxing quite lyrical, and then I got this image on Facebook from my daughter Liz. My grandson Henry has said it all.