A few minutes after I got up this morning, I posted the following to Facebook: Welcome to spring in New England. Currently, it's 18˚F out there, with the windchill at -5. Mom, you may have a house guest very soon, South Trumpland or no South Trumpland. Since then, the temperature has risen to a balmy 29˚F, with the windchill at 20˚F, humidity at 21
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For the record, I'm not to be counted among "Northern Editors and Scriveners." I am, in fact, a Southern writer stranded in the North.
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Hang in there; winter will give up the ghost soon.
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We might see warm weather by late May. I kid you not. That's normal.
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I suppose the point I'm trying to make here is that I'm endlessly thankful that you're still writing because I treasure every bit of it. It baffles me that you haven't had more financial success; I feel like most people don't know what they're missing.
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