Tales from Rural Maine: Do your worst

I was here, busily working at my computer, when Peter said: "It's flurrying."

I turned to look out the picture window and upon seeing those gosh-darned flakes falling (again!!), I made a face and shook a tiny fist of fury at it.

But then I realized, my heart isn't in it. I just feel like, "Whatever, winter. Go ahead. Freeze our balls off some more. Bury our house. Make us burn more fuel and shovel more snow and worry about the roads." I just don't even care any more. 

And you know why? Because I'm holding aces, buddy. I feel exactly the way I do when I'm playing poker and the other guy is getting pushy, and I know for a fact that it doesn't even matter if he's bluffing because I've got this hand. I have no fear. Do your worst. Go all in. I'll take you down. 

What's my ace-in-the-hole? Spring, goddammit. Go ahead and take March and April, winter, you bastard. Do your worst. I don't even care. The march of time is inexorable and you can't hold out forever. This is your last gasp. You tried to kill us every day for four months, but I got news for you, pal--we're still standing. And May and June and July and August and September are coming and you can't stop them! They are gonna melt your ass, Mr. Winter, and I am going to love every minute of it.