This afternoon, it was actually warm enough to have tea on the patio after we came home from doing errands. If this isn’t an example of “wicked weird,” as we Mainers would say, then I don’t know what is. Sixty degrees in mid-November in Maine? In what multiverse has that ever happened?
In the old days, when I was young—heck even ten years ago—November in Maine was what might called pre-winter. The ground was hard and frozen, but usually there was no snow or slush. This pleased my mother’s Franco-American heart, and it pleased mine as well. Sometimes we got snow by Thanksgiving. Sometimes we didn’t.
But we definitely didn’t have green grass, soft ground, and tea on the patio. I must admit, with a touch of sheepishness, that I do enjoy the milder falls we are having.
As we sat on the patio, Clif and I watched the birds swoop and flutter from the trees to the feeders. What a blessing to have these winged visitors come to the backyard in all seasons—winter, spring, summer, and fall—and in all weather.
Surely, today will be the last day for tea on the patio, and we will bring the two patio chairs inside. Tea on the patio in Maine in December is just too absurd to consider.