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You would think I hadn’t spent four years in college in the Northeast, spent the Christmas before last in Washington D.C.  You’d think I’d never had to defrost an old freezer, because I am fascinated with the masses of ice outside.  Not just the novelty of it, the unexpectedness. (Frida this morning: "Mom, we don’t have to go to Russia after all! You said it wouldn’t snow here, but it is snowing! It is!"). 

I’m fascinated with the way the ice takes shape, the massive build-up of tiny droplets frozen en route to… or is this where they were hoping to stop all along?   Some look menacing, like the icy talons hanging from the trees.  They create mazes of icy brambles.  My laundry line looks like a tiny light-rail tunnel, my Christmas light bulbs have grown five times their size.  It looks like someone came and squirted thin lines of icing along the tops of our fence.  The once wafer-like lantana leaves are now delectable strawberry shaped ice cubes, brilliantly green defying the wintry landscape around them.  Inviting thoughts of summer drinks.

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