The backstory: it's 2:30 in the afternoon, and -13 degrees outside.
One thing I don't have to say about New England is that it's cold. It's cold cold cold, and it's cold for a long time. Most people who've lived here for a long time are pretty flippant about it, especially when I mention something. In fact, they love laughing at me when I say it's cold. "You don't know cold," they snort, "you're from Tennessee."
I ask you this, though: when is -13 degrees NOT considered cold? That's cold, I don't give a rip who you are.
The cold permeates everything here. It's a way of life. Even the locals' reactions when I say "it's cold" is fairly cold, in and of itself. "You don't know cold"? Harsh. Frigid. Conversation is frozen on contact. Don't get me wrong; these are, in general, just about the nicest people you could ever meet. As nice as any venerable, hospitable old Southerner I've ever met. They're just closed-lipped about it, by and large. If a Yankee likes you, he or she just goes ahead and takes you in and doesn't make a big deal about it. You maybe have to have a little ego strength and some good insight, but you're in. A New Englander will always give you a chance, but doesn't always have the time to make you feel all warm and cozy.
And you know why?
Because it's fucking cold out there.
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