Cold Case
It’s day four of spring. So why am I still wearing my winter clothes?? I’m so over it all — my coats, boots, sweaters. . . I’m even tired of my Laineys, so you know it’s bad. I feel like the winter collection was so long ago — I mean, even the final sales are a distant memory at this point.
Well, at least there were some harbingers of spring out on the streets today: ice cream trucks. In New York City, the music-box notes beckoning you to the blue-and-white trucks are a definite sign of spring. They make me think of lazy summers in my childhood, even though we never had ice cream trucks in my neighborhood. Guess it’s just one of those false memories — the Brady Bunch version of childhood that’s etched in my mind for no reason other than the fact that I watched far too much TV when I was a kid. (At least I don’t misremember my childhood home as a split-level ranch. Or my mom as having a shag haircut. Then again…) My pre-teen years were more about Slurpees than Mr. Softees, but that’s what happens when you grow up in Texas.
The worst part of this yearning, of course, is that in about six weeks, I’ll probably already be complaining about the heat and longing for the roasted chestnut sellers, the memory-triggering smell of the charcoal signaling the start of winter, the return of cashmeres and scarves and hats. And no, we didn’t have those growing up in Texas either!
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