Oh, my, it is dreary out, isn't it? Even "deep in the heart of Texas" there are (occasionally) cold, wet, somber, wintry days. I can't speak for other Texans, but I revel in the cold, regarding it as compensation for the surplus of hot, humid, bone-melting days of summer and even late spring and early autumn. Though a Texan born and bred, I know in my gut I just was not made for the crippling Texas heat. Maybe that's why, from a very early age, I've always felt strongly drawn to England and all things English.
When I look out my window this morning and feel the chill seep through and numb my toes, part of me thinks "dreary day" and another part thinks "Jane Eyre wandering the moors after her aborted wedding to Rochester." I love the pattern of bare black branches against the slate sky. I love the wet pavement, the weeping rose arbor, the muddy paw prints left by stray cats. I love wrapping myself up in soft fleece and woolen socks, and even wearing fingerless gloves as I type. (We don't like to set the thermostat very high.) All these things take me away from Texas and carry me away to a kind of ersatz England, highly romanticized, perhaps, but effective, in my mind, at least.
I recently watched again my DVD of Nancy Meyers' film The Holiday, this time with the commentary on. One day while filming, Ms. Meyers asked Kate Winslet about the validity of Kate's character wearing a heavy wool scarf while at home; in reply, Ms. Winslet grasped Ms. Meyers by the shoulders and said, "This is the Cotswolds." Ms. Meyers, later in the commentary, tells us that one of her English friends actually took a shower once with her coat on.
So perhaps I do romanticize England a bit. But I will embrace and enjoy these chilly days while I can—I know all too well that the infamous Texas heat will soon beat my brow and bend my back.
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