Mother Nature (that sulky wench) sure planted us a facer this weekend. From going no-boots, gloves and scarf last week to hauling out the winter gear from storage and thanking my stars that my gnarly winter tires are still on my vehicle. Brrrr. March slunk into April, which is bashing us about the head with awful weather. I’m certainly not venturing outside today, so I have no excuse but to write. In Act III, scene II of Shakespeare’s King Lear, the maddened King wanders the heaths, raging to his Fool: Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white…

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