This column appeared on the op/ed page of the New York Times on Sunday, August 12, 2012. I was substituting for Thomas Freidman.
By JENNIFER FINNEY BOYLAN
Published: August 11, 2012 49 Comments
- Belgrade Lakes, Me.
LAST March, just before the melt set in, I got the Call. It was a little late in the season for it, but I wasn’t all that surprised, given the blizzard we’d just endured. If you live in Maine long enough, you’re used to getting the Call from a flatlander, usually on the morning after some serious weather.
“Hey, we’ve got the flowers out down here,” said my friend. “We’re drinking lemonade.”
“Well, that sounds nice,” I said.
“How long before you get your screens in?” she asked. “How long before you’re drinking lemonade?”
It would be months, of course. The average yearly snowfall in my part of central Maine is 71 inches, which, just for perspective, is around five inches more snow than Ross Perot is tall.
In Maine, June comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. And July showers bring August flowers.
I didn’t always live like this. When I was young… (click here to read the rest).