Let me paint the picture for you….The temperature is a mere 40 degrees outside, the sun is partly hidden by clouds; it is not warm. Our eldest nomad son, Noah, is editing his novel at the kitchen table; the kitchen table is by the back door. The ground is still covered with snow, and what isn’t snow, is mud. Chase and I return from an afternoon stroll to check the mail (the mailbox is a half mile away). Chase, being the chivalrous gentleman that he is, opens the door for me, and continues holding it open as I struggle to get my muddy boots off before entering the house. As he’s so kindly holding the door open, he says, “We’re not trying to heat the outside.” To which Noah (without missing a beat) says, “That’s called summer. It’s free.”
That Is Called Summer
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