“But it’s May,” she wailed, as the snow came down last night. “May twelfth!”
She had me there. The price for breathing some of the cleanest air in North America (when it isn’t dusty and the forest doesn’t burn) is having “spring” become a dirty word, as in, “The sheep got through the winter fine and then the spring just killed them.”
I’m glad this thing’s on auto-pilot now. Otherwise, I’d be responsible.