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I remember when Kentucky would get snow. I once took a ruler out to the picnic table for an accurate accounting of our accumulation, and we had eight whole inches. That no longer seems impressive after years in the Midwest, but remember, this is the South we’re talking about. I built an igloo. It was magical. (Weirdly, Kentucky’s gotten a lot of snow in recent years—just a few weeks ago, ten inches fell on my hometown. What the heck.) Ice was the bigger danger. When I was young we had an ice storm harsh enough to crack the mulberry tree in our backyard in half. In high school we lost power for a week when an especially bad one tore through. In the eerily silent darkness, I remember the trees clicking like windchimes, like an audience of crystalline fingers snapping.
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May 2020
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