My fifth grade teacher was terrible. So intensely did I hate school, that winter storms (it snowed south of Boston in the early '60s) came as liberators. On several mornings I awoke, peeked out the window, and knew--with religious conviction--that snow was good. Below, the sign for Admissions stands splattered.
Twelve years later, I found myself living on a boat in Cocoanut Grove and earning my first graduate credits at U. Miami. This made me a Hurricane. I responded to a magazine cover of a New England winter scene like Pavlov's dog: I needed snow to be happy. I would transfer to UNH and find a job in snowy Northern New England. Here's what Ives House will look like to students as they return tomorrow:
If you ask me, the past 26 years have been disappointing on the snow front. My entire career hinged on snow, and it hasn't measured up to my expectations. Until now. We are pleasantly buried with the stuff, and everything's perfect, at last.
Why am I leaving, then, for 10 days in the South?
