For the 35 years that I have lived in Maine it has been a kind of house axiom that by my birthday there would be a snowfall. Oddly, that seemed to prove itself more often than not, specially when I lived up in the central part of the state. Now that I live in the southern region of the state, this is not so common. I don’t even think about it. Until this morning.

It isn’t much. Only a dusting. The temperature is dead on 32˚. If the sun shines, and the rumor is that it will, it will be gone soon. But right now it’s there specially on elevated surfaces. What does it mean? Nothing much. A little precipitation is a good thing.

It’s more of an emotional ceremonial thing. It’s only late fall. Actual winter is a month away. But this is its harbinger. I have already moved the snow blower out of the cellar and into the spare garage for easy access to the work it will have to do. All I have to do is run the door up, crank the machine and head out into the white world of blowing snow. Whoa there Pard – Don’t get carried away in pre-season ecstasy. It’s highly likely that I’ll be cussing the stuff before the daffodils bloom. But for now, we have turned that proverbial corner. The holiday season begins now. Seek out the warmth of family and friends. Pay attention to the things that matter.

We’ll begin the season by climbing the local mountain later today. Then we’ll pick up a couple of live lobsters for our dinner by the fire. It’s entirely possible that there is a nice bottle of wine in the mix, all in celebration of 85 winters and that first dusting of the season.

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