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At the very least, it�ll give me something to laugh about during the summer

January 16, 2005 ~ 6:00 p.m.

I go home to Boston for two weeks on Tuesday. That�s the good news.

The bad news is, it�s going to be cold. Temperatures will be anywhere from the teens to the low 30s. Those are going to be the highs. Even the Norway spruces are going to want burlap coats.

Meanwhile, here in London, I�ve become spoiled. All winter long, so far, we�ve had highs in the mid 40s to mid 50s. I can recall only two days in which we never got out of the 30s.

I�m in trouble.

I believe that I can still handle the cold. It�s in my blood. But it doesn�t mean I like it.

Five years ago, my wife and mother-in-law were over for a pre-Christmas vacation and the weather was brutally cold. It was unusually frigid, even for mid winter in New England. I suppose it would have been tolerable had the air been still, but we also had winds whipping between 20-30 miles an hour. We were at Rowes Wharf and planned to walk to Faneuil Hall from there, a walk of only half-a-mile. I trudged ahead, with a gritty determination not unlike that of an Arctic explorer.

From behind me, I heard, �No. Forget it! No way!� It was the wife, waving her arms frantically. Jo, my mom-in-law, stood with her back to the wind, trying to hide inside her coat. These two Englishwomen had never felt anything like it. I can�t say I blame them. I accepted the weather; but they could not. The South Pole was probably a warmer place than Boston that day. We hopped back in the car and went back to the house.

Frankly, I don�t care what temperature it is, so long as it snows about a foot while I�m there, and I can help my brother-in-law plow.

But my only worry is this: I�ve spent so long in England, what if I�ve become like them, simply unable to deal with temperatures below 25 Fahrenheit?

I guess we�ll see.

� M.E.M.

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