Living 8,000 miles away from my boyhood home in a steamy tropical culture often makes me nostalgic for New England weather. As I write, over there leaves are burning orange and soon will limp to the ground and die. Off shore the mighty winds are blowing and snow has already made an early appearance. Oh how I miss it. That's why reading Steinbeck describe weather nostalgia was therapeutic today. He writes,
"I've lived in good climate, and it bores the hell out of me. I like weather rather than climate. In Cuernavaca, Mexico, where I once lived, and where the climate is as near to perfect as is conceivable, I have found that when people live there they usually go to Alaska. I'd like to see how long an Aroostook County man can stand Florida. The trouble is that with his savings moved and invested there, he can't very well go back. His dice are rolled and can't be picked up again. But I do wonder if a down-Easter, sitting on a nylon-and-aluminum chair out on a changelessly green lawn slapping misquitos in the evening of a Florida October-I do wonder if the stab of memory doesn't strike him high in the stomach just below the ribs where it hurts. And in the humid ever-summer I dare his picturing mind not to go back to the shout of color, to the clean rasp of frosty air, to the smell of pine wood burning and the caressing warmth of kitchens. For how can one know color in perpetual green, and what good is warmth without cold to give it sweetness ?"
That is what I miss, "the clean rasp of frosty air...the caressing warmth of kitchens...color."