It’s difficult to not be excited for a 60° day in January, along the 40th parallel of the globe. My neighborhood should be filled with arctic temperatures, similar to those that froze my furnace lines, and the streets should be lined with a healthy dose of waist-height snowbanks. Actually, we did have snow just a few days ago; however, it has melted with a few consecutive days of unseasonable warmth.

Without further thought, reflection, and weather system bewilderment, I do what any other man in Pennsylvania would do, based on similar circumstances. I drive to the grocery store—a task already assigned to me during my lunch break, to purchase lettuce and tomatoes and milk and bread—with the windows down in the car, the radio blasting, and the sunroof cracked wide open to gather the warmth and sun rays of a weird week.

If only for a short period of time, I relish the sun, and briefly remember the promises of Spring—despite the delayed delivery upon such promises. By 3:00pm, charcoal skies roll across the horizon and the temperature drops a solid twenty degrees. Another storm is approaching, on a massive scale.