Vermont, Torturer of Souls

It seems that spring is finally upon us, but history reminds The Cynic to be wary.  Oh, Vermont! We arrive amidst the final throes of a cool, pleasant summer, naive to the monster that lies dormant during the pleasant months. Those of us who have been here long enough have had our preconceived notions of what normal weather is uprooted and thoroughly perverted In fair Vermont, where we set our scene, it starts in September – snow appears atop Mt. Mansfield, looming over the Queen City and foretelling the harsh winter to come. Vermont, you are a fickle beast. November turns into December, and we are yet to be assaulted a Nor’easter. We think, “ah, a respite from the endless cold.” Oh, Vermont! You relish in this false sense of security.  December starts with a dusting – which you have corrupted to mean four or five inches. Every year, without fail, you bring a solid week in January where the temperature simply does not rise above single digits. We struggle, our beards frozen from perspiration, dodging the icicles on Old Mill that would surely spell death if cast upon us. Yet we persevere. Oh, Vermont! You dumpeth hundreds of inches of snow upon us. Have you no sense of decency, at long last? The weathermen, they are used to it. They only say it’s going to snow when it’s going to be half a foot or more – for it is assumed that at some point on any given day, it will be snowing. Tom Messner, you are the keeper of gloom – your reports are not a question of “if”, but “how much?” Parking bans become so common we abandon driving altogether. Universitas Viridis Montis, noble as it’s motto suggests, offers no relief – a snow day is a distant memory of our grade school past. April arriveth; beleaguered souls, weather-worn and weary, yearn for a gasp of air that doesn’t burn our bronchial tubes. We emerge from our snowed-in apartments, ghostly pale, cursing landlords citywide has we struggle across snowed-in porches. Sunlight! We welcome your return with squinting eyes, blissful and resilient.  Oh, Vermont! So far from God and so close to Canada. Enjoyeth winter’s recess, Vermonters. But The Cynic gives fair warning – don’t put away those Bean Boots and that jacket just yet. Fair Vermont, we will not fall victim to your trap. Alas, poor Yorick! We will not play the fool in this scene. The Cynic hopes that winter is over, but that shovel will never be far from arm’s reach.