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The Review



Bon Hiver

The first snow came and went under cover of darkness Tuesday before last, as if the tiny storm were apologizing for its embarassing performance as winter's heralder. It wasn't much of a snow, just a crisp dusting that found itself trapped along garage eaves come morning. There were none of the usual opportunities for watching it fall from cold windows, or for the sharp intake of breath when confronted with a new white earth. With the first snow, we got the shaft.

What, exactly, is the deal then? So far this Indian Summer has lasted so long as to negate the use of our fashionable fall clothing; we will be catapulted directly into expedition weight Gore-Tex with not even a "how do you do." Halloween, normally fearful for nothing else if not the devilish sleet that cuts right through the best of costumes, was mild and pleasant. Neither harvest nor blue moon was made to sparkle by the frozen night air, and now here we are in November already, with nary a snowball to show for our troubles.

The seasons are failing us miserably. With each new, bright, sunshiny day, we find ourselves turning to our fellow citizens and asking, "What is this crap?" It's time for that muffling blanket of snow to cover the world and make it clean -- to cool our current global hemorrhoids, to calm and cause introspection. There's only 40 days until Christmas, Mre Nature, do what you need to do and bring us the winter we deserve.

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