I met a man at the store tonight from South Georgia. He’s 75 years old and this is first time he’s been North of Tennessee. He decided to spend the winter up here in Maine, smack dab in the middle of the first real winter we’ve had in years. I had to ask him why.
“Because,” he said, “last fall I realized that I was about to turn seventy-five and I’d never tasted snow before.”
He is my new hero.