Harsh Winter Quotes

Father loved the fact that a lilac only blossoms after a harsh winter.

She is beautiful, isn’t she? (Lochlan) Like the first day of spring after a long, harsh winter. (Sin)

Autumn is my favourite season of all. It is a transitory period that allows the earth to rest before it sees the harshness of winter and hears the promise of spring.

But it’s fitting in a way—Father loved the fact that a lilac only blossoms after a harsh winter.

The Lord Steward summoned Lord James to his study. Joining them were Lord Nimrod, the Consort, and Judith, who stood beside the Consort and stared out the window. A winter sunrise streaked the sky with pink-and-gold light. Judith wrestled with her anguish. This is probably Helen’s last sunrise, and she’s no doubt in some stinking hole and cannot even see it. Lord James paid little heed to anyone else. All he saw was Miriam’s face, her green eyes harsh with accusation. All he heard were her pleas. Do something, James. Save her. Don’t let her die. Thinking he had everyone’s attention, Shinar got to the point. “It seems you have a daughter, James.

And that stupid little girl stood in the winter and kept lighting matches to catch glimpses of families that weren’t—could never be—hers and froze to death in those harsh moments of reality between matches, because even though matches can burn, they’re light, not heat.

The Chicago winter is harsh. But every now and then God blesses us with a thirty-or forty-degree day to remind us that misery comes and goes.

Autumn in the Highlands would be brief—a glorious riot of color blazing red across the moors and gleaming every shade of gold in the forests of sheltered glens. Those achingly beautiful images would be painted again and again across the hills and in the shivering waters of the mountain tarns until the harsh winds of winter sent the last quaking leaf to its death on the frozen ground.

There were nights when I got nothing, [but] I still played. With no one to hear me and no one to pay me, and it did not matter. On those nights, the words were for me alone. They came up unbidden from my heart. They slipped over my tongue and spilled from my mouth. And because of them I, who was nothing and nobody, was a prince of Denmark, a maid of Verona, a queen of Egypt. I was a sour misanthrope, a beetling hypocrite, a conjurer's daughter, a mad and murderous king. It was dark and it was cold on those nights. The world was harsh and I was hungry. Yet I had such joy from the words. Such joy. There were times when I lifted my face to the sky, stretched my arms wide to the winter night, and laughed out loud, so happy was I. The memory of it makes me laugh now, but not from happiness. Be careful what you show the world. You never know when the wolf is watching.

You should go back to tend your flock. They will have need of their faith before this is finished,” he said much more harshly than intended.

I could feel the bite of the autumn air, warning us all of the harsh winter that was on its way.

Is this a mild winter or a harsh winter?

Caroline wiped her cheek with the back of her gardening glove, leaving a dark smudge below one eye, then pulled off her gloves. 'But it's fitting in a way - Father loved the fact that a lilac only blossoms after a harsh winter.' Caroline reached over and smoothed the hair back from my brow with a light touch. How many times had my mother done that? 'It's a miracle all of this beauty emerges after such hardship, don't you think?

The Good Book tells us He’ll never leave or forsake us.” Prescott stared at the spiderweb of scars on his right hand. “He’s with us even during the hard times, and I think we’re reminded of that when a bird sings after a storm, a hare hops through the snow during a harsh winter, and when the first ray of sun breaks through a barrier of clouds.” A Tender Heart by Madisyn Carlin

The first real day of spring is like the first time a boy holds your hand. A flood of skin-tingling warmth consumes you, and everything shines with a fresh, colorful glow, making you forget that anything as cold and harsh as winter ever existed.

Look at this. A barstool, named Sven? Some old Swedish custom, the winter kicks in, weather gets harsh, after a while you find yourself relating to the furniture in ways you didn't expect?

Erik was one of those inadequate people who were so scared by life that they preferred to live under harsh authority, to be told what to do and what to think by a government that allowed no dissent. They were foolish and dangerous, but there were an awful lot of them.

Grief is not a linear slide into darkness. It is a cyclical path that eventually rotates into light. Spring comes after the cold, harsh winter. Yes, there are seasons when grief is louder and more disruptive, but there are also seasons when grief backs off, your strength returns, and night turns into morning.

The best fruit arises from a hostile environment—harsh winters, dry soil, and unrelenting heat from the sun deepen a grape’s flavor and heighten its sweetness. Bearable conditions bring only mediocre fruit. —Notebook of a viticulturist

Life is defined by time and seasons. Summer brings sunshine, warm and flowering. Spring brings warmth and blossoms of flowers. Fall brings the falling of leaves and cool days. Winter brings cold dry harsh weather and trees are without leaves.

There is something beautiful about a sunny winter day, A break from harsh gray skies and harsh cold winds, A bright warm sun and clear blue skies instead.

a lilac only blossoms after a harsh winter.

Think of learning as storing up supplies you may need for a harsh winter.

Change should be gradual. Without spring and fall, summer and winter would be too harsh; without dawn and dusk, day and night would be too abrupt.

I hate this night. I hate that it makes me a person so truly removed from the real me; this man who sits in silence in his parlor – purposely quarantined from his family – is not who I want to be. But on Halloween night, this awful impostor wafts over me like morning fog, and I know there’s no resisting him. Like one anticipates the common cold brought on by a harsh winter, I know this broken and terrified man will soon be visiting when the evening of October 31st falls upon us. And on this yearly autumn night, he will sit and drink. And remember.

Events cast their shadows ahead; before a harsh winter, wild animals grow thicker fur, and the beaver puts on a thicker layer of fat. What kind of times and what sort of tasks can lie ahead for a generation that must think so harshly, even at such a young age, in order to survive?

Jack Frost hibernates from March to November, dreaming snowflake designs to share in December. With glittering breath, snowstorms, and blue blizzards, lakes made of crystal, he’s an icy wizard! People assume winter will be harsh, cold, and cruel and that Jack must be a wicked, cold-weather ghoul. But he’s truly an artist, known as Bringer of Ice, and although his heart is cold, he’s really quite nice.

But I was stupid to think I could protect you forever. Not from her.” His tone turned harsh. Winter’s emotions were shredded from the constant flipping of this conversation.

Winter brings cold dry harsh weather and trees are without leaves.

If a man gives you a harsh winter, give him back something unexpected: The warm spring!

Hope that something beautiful would grow despite the harsh winter, the frozen earth and a world that was constantly at war.

Loving you is like the first day of spring after a harsh winter. Loving you feels like I found a life raft in the middle of a raging ocean.

fact that a lilac only blossoms after a harsh winter.

harsh winters. If this calf was born in May or June of last year, it might have been eight months old now. The cow, its mother, was

~A Comparison of Seasons~ Snow's unforgiving power causes some men to wish for spring's flower. Some might hate snow's bitter chill, but you love it at your own will. I see snow as something fun, but others might still long for summer's sun. You and I hate summer's heat, but we still love the warmth of a fire on our feet. Spring has jays whose virtuous songs are nice, but winter's lonely echoes are earth's frigged vice. I enjoy spring's life, yet I still love winter's seemingly harsh sorrow; sometimes I can't get out of the house, so I worry about tomorrow. I love the sight of snow and I treasure the sight of summer's river which swiftly flows. Also, winter can be cold, but we can look forward to seeing spring's life and joy unfold.

It is always wise to inject a piece of reality into the madness of our dreams! For example, we should add the harsh winds of winter to our dream of a magnificent wooden house on the top of a mountain!

The school year started in September, with a long vacation in the winter, not the summer, due to the difficulty of keeping the schools warm in North Korea’s harsh winters. My kindergarten had a large wood-burning stove in the middle of the classroom and walls painted with colourful scenes of children performing gymnastics, children in uniform, and of a North Korean soldier simultaneously impaling a Yankee, a Japanese and a South Korean soldier with his rifle bayonet.

For the city, his city, stood unchanging on the edge of time: the same burning dry city of his nocturnal terrors and the solitary pleasures of puberty, where flowers rusted and salt corroded, where nothing had happened for four centuries except a slow aging among withered laurels and putrefying swamps. In winter sudden devastating downpours flooded the latrines and turned the streets into sickening bogs. In summer an invisible dust as harsh as red-hot chalk was blown into even the best-protected corners of the imagination by mad winds that took the roofs off the houses and carried away children through the air.

Tradition looks at a traditional civilization as a tree. The root of the tree is permanent and firm in the ground of revelation, but the branches grow in different seasons and in different directions. Tradition does not deny the fact that if you have a harsh and dry winter, the next spring you have fewer flowers and that if you have a winter with more agreeable conditions, you will have more flowers.

A memory comes up and you brace yourself. What will it be? Something that makes you cry? So what if it makes you cry? Why do you judge your tears? That’s another lie that someone told you. That tears are bad. That tears are a sign of weakness. Tears are a sign of life and love and like the spring rains that wash away the harshness of winter they nourish and clear the way for regeneration. Tears are a part of life. Sadness and sorrow are a part of life. Are you willing to cut off the life we shared together simply because you do not want to feel your sorrow or the wet tears upon your face?

Someone is just dead!” said the little girl; for her old grandmother, the only person who had loved her, and who was now no more, had told her, that when a star falls, a soul ascends to God. And that stupid little girl stood in the winter and kept lighting matches to catch glimpses of families that weren’t—could never be—hers and froze to death in those harsh moments of reality between matches, because even though matches can burn, they’re light, not heat.

Oaks, which represent strength and endurance, have long been linked with the Druids. Rowan trees afford protection. Hardy holly that can survive harsh winters symbolizes courage. Poplars represent death and rebirth. Willows are associated with intuition; divining rods are often fashioned from their flexible branches.

That's the real distinction between people: not between those who have secrets and those who don't, but between those who want to know everything and those who don't. This search is a sign of love, I maintain. It's similar with books. Not quite the same, of course (it never is); but similar. If you quite enjoy a writer's work, if you turn the page approvingly yet don't mind being interrupted, then you tend to like that author unthinkingly. Good chap, you assume. Sound fellow. They say he strangled an entire pack of Wolf Cubs and fed their bodies to a school of carp? Oh no, I'm sure he didn't; sound fellow, good chap. But if you love a writer, if you depend upon the drip-feed of his intelligence, if you want to pursue him and find him -- despite edicts to the contrary -- then it's impossible to know too much. You seek the vice as well. A pack of Wolf Cubs, eh? Was that twenty-seven or twenty-eight? And did he have their little scarves sewn up into a patchwork quilt? And is it true that as he ascended the scaffold he quoted from the Book of Jonah? And that he bequeathed his carp pond to the local Boy Scouts? But here's the difference. With a lover, a wife, when you find the worst -- be it infidelity or lack of love, madness or the suicidal spark -- you are almost relieved. Life is as I thought it was; shall we now celebrate this disappointment? With a writer you love, the instinct is to defend. This is what I meant earlier: perhaps love for a writer is the purest, the steadiest form of love. And so your defense comes the more easily. The fact of the matter is, carp are an endangered species, and everyone knows that the only diet they will accept if the winter has been especially harsh and the spring turns wet before St Oursin's Day is that of young minced Wolf Cub. Of course he knew he would hang for the offense, but he also knew that humanity is not an endangered species, and reckoned therefore that twenty-seven (did you say twenty-eight?) Wolf Cubs plus one middle-ranking author (he was always ridiculously modest about his talents) were a trivial price to pay for the survival of an entire breed of fish. Take the long view: did we need so many Wolf Cubs? They would only have grown up and become Boy Scouts. And if you're still so mired in sentimentality, look at it this way: the admission fees so far received from visitors to the carp pond have already enabled the Boy Scouts to build and maintain several church halls in the area.

I'll recite it like a folktale. These sorts of memories, they're easier to understand that way. A memory, a true memory is harsh and full of sharp edges. The facts, they don't always make sense in the ways that we might wish. Things happen that we cannot speak of aloud. These remembering are prickly like blackberry briar in winter, with no leaves to soften them. And the worst thing about memory, the deadliest, most brutal part: memory can be forgotten. But a folktale-a folktale can never be forgotten because it wriggles and rearranges until it sits neatly on the heart.

We depended on the indigenous of this land to teach us farming and harvesting skills that we largely lacked upon arrival. Indeed, had it not been for the wisdom of native North Americans, the first attempt at European colonization would have failed entirely. We were starving in droves, perishing in Jamestown because we had spent so much time looking for gold that we’d forgotten to plant crops that could sustain us through the harsh winters. Four hundred–plus years later that folly has been repeated, at least metaphorically, in an economy so focused on the chasing of wealth for wealth’s sake that it has failed to re-sow its crops, to invest in the future, to actually produce anything of value as it opts, instead, to chase financial fortunes and immediate riches.

His task was to survive and endure through the harsh winter months, winnowing his soul until it could cross to the spirit world. There, he would undertake the search for his guide, a god embodied in some kind of beast or bird, who would protect him throughout his life. His spirit guide would enlighten his mind and guide his steps in myriad ways, until the end of his life. In those cold woods, he would learn his destiny. He said that if the spirit guide came to him in the form of a snake, then he would gain his heart’s desire, and become pawaaw. “I thought of the quarantine of Jesus, a similar harsh and lonely trial of character and purpose. But that vigil passed in searing desert, not snowy wood. And when, at the end, the devil came with his visions of cities and offers of power, Jesus shunned him. Caleb desired to bid him welcome.

Is she safe to be around?” Winter asked harshly. “What do you think?” He tilted his head at Moon. “I AM,” Peril said. She thought MUSHROOMS AND MONGOOSES at the NightWing as loud as she could, and Moon started giggling.

Wild Peaches" When the world turns completely upside down You say we’ll emigrate to the Eastern Shore Aboard a river-boat from Baltimore; We’ll live among wild peach trees, miles from town, You’ll wear a coonskin cap, and I a gown Homespun, dyed butternut’s dark gold color. Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor, We’ll swim in milk and honey till we drown. The winter will be short, the summer long, The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot, Tasting of cider and of scuppernong; All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all. The squirrels in their silver fur will fall Like falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot. 2 The autumn frosts will lie upon the grass Like bloom on grapes of purple-brown and gold. The misted early mornings will be cold; The little puddles will be roofed with glass. The sun, which burns from copper into brass, Melts these at noon, and makes the boys unfold Their knitted mufflers; full as they can hold Fat pockets dribble chestnuts as they pass. Peaches grow wild, and pigs can live in clover; A barrel of salted herrings lasts a year; The spring begins before the winter’s over. By February you may find the skins Of garter snakes and water moccasins Dwindled and harsh, dead-white and cloudy-clear. 3 When April pours the colors of a shell Upon the hills, when every little creek Is shot with silver from the Chesapeake In shoals new-minted by the ocean swell, When strawberries go begging, and the sleek Blue plums lie open to the blackbird’s beak, We shall live well — we shall live very well. The months between the cherries and the peaches Are brimming cornucopias which spill Fruits red and purple, sombre-bloomed and black; Then, down rich fields and frosty river beaches We’ll trample bright persimmons, while you kill Bronze partridge, speckled quail, and canvasback. 4 Down to the Puritan marrow of my bones There’s something in this richness that I hate. I love the look, austere, immaculate, Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones. There’s something in my very blood that owns Bare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate, A thread of water, churned to milky spate Streaming through slanted pastures fenced with stones. I love those skies, thin blue or snowy gray, Those fields sparse-planted, rendering meagre sheaves; That spring, briefer than apple-blossom’s breath, Summer, so much too beautiful to stay, Swift autumn, like a bonfire of leaves, And sleepy winter, like the sleep of death.

The winter was harsh. Kay had been spending days in her trailer hunkered down under piles of blankets—some even say with an older bear named Betty Sue. Her skin was turning gray, which could suggest emphysema, pneumonia, or a pending heart attack. The fact that her outerwear was found untorn could also suggest hypothermia, which sometimes makes victims feel like they’re burning up. Hopkins told me that Kay probably collapsed while walking back to her home. He said it’s even possible that

The ten thousand women in the Side Court were ten thousand flowers desperately dreaming of spring. Whether carefully planted out in pots or crudely sown in wasteland, they wilted in the harsh atmosphere of constant waiting, the deprivation of an endless winter.

was one of those inadequate people who were so scared by life that they preferred to live under harsh authority, to be told what to do and what to think by a government that allowed no dissent. They were foolish and dangerous, but there were an awful lot of them.

Paint me a small railroad station then, ten minutes before dark. Beyond the platform are the waters of the Wekonsett River, reflecting a somber afterglow. The architecture of the station is oddly informal, gloomy but unserious, and mostly resembles a pergola, cottage or summer house although this is a climate of harsh winters. The lamps along the platform burn with a nearly palpable plaintiveness. The setting seems in some way to be at the heart of the matter. We travel by plane, oftener than not, and yet the spirit of our country seems to have remained a country of railroads. You wake in a pullman bedroom at three a.m. in a city the name of which you do not know and may never discover. A man stands on the platform with a child on his shoulders. They are waving goodbye to some traveler, but what is the child doing up so late and why is the man crying? On a siding beside the platform there is a lighted dining car where a waiter sits alone at a table, adding up his accounts. Beyond this is a water tower and beyond this a well-lighted and empty street. Then you think happily that this is your country - unique, mysterious and vast.

I know that my phrases are crude, I write them with too much love, and that love makes up for their faults, but too much love is bad for the work. I’m restless and harsh and despairing. Although I do have love inside me. I just don’t know how to use love. Sometimes it tears at my flesh. But when winter comes I give and give and give. The excess of me starts to hurt and when I’m excessive I have to give of myself.

On harsh, frigid January days, when the winds are relentless and the snow piles up around us, I often think of our small feathered friends back on the Third Line. I wonder if the old feeder is still standing in the orchard and if anyone thinks to put out a few crumbs and some bacon drippings for our beautiful, hungry, winter birds. In the stark, white landscape they provided a welcome splash of colour and their songs gave us hope through the long, silent winter.

Chapter 8 - The Rescue Team: "Timbroke Hall was completely dark. A creaking shutter opened and closed to the rhythm of a howling, north wind. It bore a cold reminder of the harsh winter coming quickly this year. The children crept up the rock stairs to the familiar wooden doors at the front of the building. Ariana led them around the porch to a side door according to her, was never locked. The broken handle dangled loosely and offered free entrance. The team cautiously crossed the threshold of the old hall into pitch blackness. An owl hooted and the sound of large wings flapping reverberated around them. Camilla startled, cried out a fearful yelp causing everyone to jump. Hannah reflexively covered Camilla’s mouth until she was certain nothing more would slip out. “Quiet,” whispered Jess in an angry tone directed at Hannah. “It wasn’t me,” whispered Hannah pointing down at Camilla. “Sorry,” whispered Camilla apologetically.

Sometimes, she said, she could recognize a place just by the quality of the light. In Lisbon, the light at the end of spring leans madly over the houses, white and humid, and just a little bit salty. In Rio de Janeiro, in the season that the locals instinctively call ‘autumn’, and that the Europeans insist disdainfully is just a figment of their imagination, the light becomes gentler, like a shimmer of silk, sometimes accompanied by a humid grayness, which hangs over the streets, and then sinks down gently into the squares and gardens. In the drenched land of the Pantanal in Mato Grosso, really early in the morning, the blue parrots cross the sky and they shake a clear, slow light from their wings, a light that little by little settles on the waters, grows and spreads and seems to sing. In the forests of Taman Negara in Malaysia, the light is like a liquid, which sticks to your skin, and has a taste and a smell. It’s noisy in Goa, and harsh. In Berlin the sun is always laughing, at least during those moments when it manages to break through the clouds, like in those ecological stickers against nuclear power. Even in the most unlikely skies, Ângela Lúcia is able to discern shines that mustn’t be forgotten; until she visited Scandinavia she’d believed that in that part of the world during the winter months light was nothing but the figment of people’s imagination. But no, the clouds would occasionally light up with great flashes of hope. She said this, and stood up, adopting a dramatic pose: ‘And Egypt? In Cairo? Have you ever been to Cairo?… To the pyramids of Giza?…’ She lifted her hands and declaimed: ‘The light, majestic, falls; so potent, so alive, that it seems to settle on everything like a sort of luminous mist.

April 25 MORNING “Rise up my love, my fair one, and come away.” — Song of Solomon 2:10 LO, I hear the voice of my Beloved! He speaks to me! Fair weather is smiling upon the face of the earth, and He would not have me spiritually asleep while nature is all around me awaking from her winter’s rest. He bids me “Rise up,” and well He may, for I have long enough been lying among the pots of worldliness. He is risen, I am risen in Him, why then should I cleave unto the dust? From lower loves, desires, pursuits, and aspirations, I would rise towards Him. He calls me by the sweet title of “My love,” and counts me fair; this is a good argument for my rising. If He has thus exalted me, and thinks me thus comely, how can I linger in the tents of Kedar and find congenial associates among the sons of men? He bids me “Come away.” Further and further from everything selfish, grovelling, worldly, sinful, He calls me; yea, from the outwardly religious world which knows Him not, and has no sympathy with the mystery of the higher life, He calls me. “Come away” has no harsh sound in it to my ear, for what is there to hold me in this wilderness of vanity and sin? O my Lord, would that I could come away, but I am taken among the thorns, and cannot escape from them as I would. I would, if it were possible, have neither eyes, nor ears, nor heart for sin. Thou callest me to Thyself by saying “Come away,” and this is a melodious call indeed. To come to Thee is to come home from exile, to come to land out of the raging storm, to come to rest after long labour, to come to the goal of my desires and the summit of my wishes. But Lord, how can a stone rise, how can a lump of clay come away from the horrible pit? O raise me, draw me. Thy grace can do it. Send forth Thy Holy Spirit to kindle sacred flames of love in my heart, and I will continue to rise until I leave life and time behind me, and indeed come away.

Nor are languages any respecters of frontiers. If you drew a map of Europe based on languages it would bear scant resemblance to a conventional map. Switzerland would disappear, becoming part of the surrounding dominions of French, Italian, and German but for a few tiny pockets for Romansh (or Rumantsch or Rhaeto-Romanic as it is variously called), which is spoken as a native language by about half the people in the Graubünden district (or Grisons district—almost everything has two names in Switzerland) at the country’s eastern edge. This steep and beautiful area, which takes in the ski resorts of St. Moritz, Davos, and Klosters, was once effectively isolated from the rest of the world by its harsh winters and forbidding geography. Indeed, the isolation was such that even people in neighboring valleys began to speak different versions of the language, so that Romansh is not so much one language as five fragmented and not always mutually intelligible dialects. A person from the valley around Sutselva will say, “Vagned nà qua” for “Come here,” while in the next valley he will say, “Vegni neu cheu” [cited in The Economist, February 27, 1988]. In other places people will speak the language in the same way but spell it differently depending on whether they are Catholic or Protestant.

Just as our hunger is not that feeling of missing a meal, so our way of being cold has need of a new word. We say 'hunger', we say 'tiredness', 'fear', 'pain', we say 'winter' and they are different things. They are free words, created and used by free men who lived in comfort and suffering in their homes. If the Lagers had lasted longer a new, harsh language would have been born; and only this language could express what it means to toil the whole day in the wind, with the temperature below freezing, wearing only a shirt, underpants, cloth jacket and trousers, and in one's body nothing but weakness, hunger, and knowledge of the end drawing nearer.

With the one who is your brother in arms, you share both good and bad. You share the sweltering heat of summer and the burning sun that beats down on your head as you march. You share the autumn rains that turn roads, trenches and individual foxholes to mud. You share the cold and harshness of winter, and when everything is frozen around you, any source of physical or soul warmth, you share it with him. In spring, when nature comes back to life, you share the longing for loved ones, for home, for life before the war. With your comrade, you share joys and sorrows, possibly even the mass grave at the end, but above all life in the worst and most unfriendly conditions. Simion addressing Paul

Finland is not Scandinavia, nor is it Russia. Nevertheless, Finnish tradition owes something to both cultures. But the modern Finn is staunchly independent. The long struggle for emancipation and the battle to survive in a harsh environment have engendered an ordered society that solves its own problems in its own way. They have also given birth to the Finnish trait of sisu, often translated as ‘guts’, or the resilience to survive prolonged hardship. Even if all looks lost, a Finn with sisu will fight – or swim, or run, or work – valiantly until the final defeat. This trait is valued highly, with the country’s heroic resistance against the Red Army in the Winter War usually thought of as the ultimate example.

How do I begin to tell you about Dana and all that she meant to my life? A writer can describe spring in technical terms; the scent of cherry blossoms awakening from their long winter's sleep; the first whiff of honeysuckle in the air; and the bright cool promise of the sun before it turns harsh in summer. Through some gift from God, perhaps he is able to imbue it so vividly for the reader that they can envision spring in all its loveliness. But can he ever truly capture on paper that feeling of spring in his heart? How could he find words to describe the rush of joy his heart feels at discovering life can be beautiful? Could the poetry of his prose ever paint a feeling, or recount his soul's wistfulness that when this moment passes, life will never be as beautiful again? All I can say is that is how I felt the first time I saw her.

The Soviet Union’s record before, during, and after the war isn’t pretty, so it’s easy to forget that in the early days of World War II, they were the underdog. The Third Reich regarded Russians and Ukrainians as racial undesirables fit only to be exterminated; Soviet soldiers were routinely slaughtered or starved if they were taken prisoner, unlike the more by-the-book treatment of French and English POWs. The Russians responded with equal savagery once the tide turned in their favor, but at the beginning of Germany’s terrifying and overwhelming invasion, all the under-equipped Red Army could do was mount a fighting retreat, letting the harsh terrain and Russian winter do to Hitler what it had done to Napoleon. That strategy came at a horrifying cost: millions of Soviets died wearing down the German advance. And many of those front-line lives at stake were women.

He did not in the least wish the future Mrs. Newland Archer to be a simpleton. He meant her (thanks to his enlightening companionship) to develop a social tact and readiness of wit enabling her to hold her own with the most popular married women of the 'younger set,' in which it was the recognized custom to attract masculine homage while playfully discouraging it. If he had probed to the bottom of his vanity (as he sometimes nearly did) he would have found there the wish that his wife should be as worldly-wise and eager to please as the married lady whose charms had held his fancy through two mildly agitated years; without, of course, any hint of the frailty which had so nearly marred that unhappy being's life, and had disarranged his own plans for a whole winter. How this miracle of fire and ice was to be created, and to sustain itself in a harsh world, he had never taken the time to think out; but he was content to hold his view without analyzing it, since he knew it was that of all the carefully-brushed, white-waistcoated, buttonhole-flowered gentlemen who succeeded each other in the club box, exchanged friendly greetings with him, and turned their opera-glasses critically on the circle of ladies who were the product of the system. In matters intellectual and artistic Newland Archer felt himself distinctly the superior of these chosen specimens of old New York gentility; he had probably read more, thought more, and even seen a good deal more of the world, than any other man of the number. Singly they betrayed their inferiority; but grouped together they represented 'New York,' and the habit of masculine solidarity made him accept their doctrine in all the issues called moral. He instinctively felt that in this respect it would be troublesome - and also rather bad form - to strike out for himself.

They came from peasant backgrounds, had hated the Japanese colonization of Korea, and believed that the Americans and their proxies in Seoul were agents of the past, not enablers of the future; the Americans were now the allies of the Japanese, as well as the old Korean ruling class, and thus this was a continuation of the struggle that had forced them to leave their native soil years earlier. The leadership of the South Korean Army was in their minds a reflection of those Koreans who had fought alongside the Japanese, and in the upper-level ranks this was often true. The North Koreans troops had trained hard and were extremely well disciplined and motivated. They camouflaged themselves exceptionally well, stayed off the roads, and often moved over the harsh terrain by foot, as the Americans did not. Like the Chinese Communists who had trained them and with whom they had fought, they tended to avoid all-

But if they didn’t return to Halstead Hall before their absence was discovered, she’d be ruined. A young unmarried female couldn’t just go off on a trip, no matter how short, with an unmarried gentleman. They’d have to marry. Yes-they would, wouldn’t they? A powerful longing swept him as he watched her hug Mrs. Duffet. For one fleeting moment, he indulged the fantasy of being Celia’s husband. He would return to Cheapside every day after work at Bow Street to find her, his wife, waiting in his home to greet him with a kiss. They’d have a pleasant dinner, then walk down to Blackfriars Bridge and stroll across the Thames to watch the sun set in summer or the moon rise on a chilly night in winter. Once they returned home, he’d write up his reports as she darned his socks- A harsh laugh clogged his throat. As if a lady like her would ever darn socks. Or be satisfied with a simple walk across a bridge in the moonlight instead of a night at the theater. You could afford a night at the theater from time to time, and new socks anytime your old ones get holes. But only if he became Chief Magistrate. And once the children came along… Children? That was quite the leap forward, considering that a marriage between them was impossible. Damn Mrs. Plumtree to hell.

At first I thought you were your mother, come to free me from my hell. Like an angel. You take after her, though you are as young as I remember.” I stared at my ash-covered feet, and the hair that fell in a mussed braid by my side. I thought of Bharata’s dead walking past my bedroom while I slept. I thought of Vikram weeping for his dead mother while I kissed the Dharma Raja in a winter room. I was no angel. “Who rules in your stead?” “The yuvuraja, Skanda,” said the Raja, thoughtfully tugging on his beard. Death had not relieved him of all his habits. I almost smiled to see the familiar gesture. “I hope he remembers all I have said. Sometimes I expect to see him across my cell. And I do not know if he will be young as I remember him, or old because time has passed and I am here.” He looked at the ground. “Do not pity me, daughter. Everyone comes here. Some merely stay longer than others.” We stared at each other through the glass. I could feel his eyes searching me, trying to match up the memory of when he had last seen me to the person who stood before him now. “Partnered with Death itself,” he said, repeating a part of my horoscope. A harsh laugh escaped him. “I understand now.” The Raja moved away from his mirror wall, his eyes twinkling as he bowed low.

In the late 1940s and early 1950s, Olson had traveled across the United States overseeing field tests that dispersed biological agents from aircraft and crop dusters in San Francisco, the Midwest, and Alaska. Some field tests involved harmless simulants and others involved dangerous pathogens, as Senate hearings later revealed. One such dangerous experiment was conducted by Olson and his Detrick colleague Norman Cournoyer. The two men went to Alaska and oversaw bacteria being sprayed out of airplanes to see how the pathogens would disperse in an environment similar to that of a harsh Russian winter. “We used a spore,” Cournoyer explained, “which is very similar [to} anthrax, so to that extent we did something that was not kosher. Because we picked it up all over [the United States] months after we did the tests.” A third man involved in the covert tests with Cournoyer and Olson was Dr. Harold Batchelor, the bacteriologist who learned airborne spray techniques from Dr. Kurt Blome, whom Batchelor consulted with in Heidelberg. Olson and Batchelor also conducted covert field tests in closed spaces across America, including in subways and in the Pentagon. For these tests, the Special Operations Division used a relatively harmless pathogen that simulated how a deadly pathogen would disperse. A congressional inquiry into these covert tests found them “appalling” in their deception.

The history of the land is a history of blood. In this history, someone wins and someone loses. There are patriots and enemies. Folk heroes who save the day. Vanquished foes who had it coming. It’s all in the telling. The conquered have no voice. Ask the thirty-eight Santee Sioux singing the death song with the nooses around their necks, the treaty signed fair and square, then nullified with a snap of the rope. Ask the slave women forced to bear their masters’ children, to raise and love them and see them sold. Ask the miners slaughtered by the militia in Ludlow. Names are erased. The conqueror tells the story. The colonizer writes the history, winning twice: A theft of land. A theft of witness. Oh, but let’s not speak of such things! Look: Here is an eagle whipping above the vast grasslands where the buffalo once thundered bold as gods. (The buffalo are here among the dead. So many buffalo.) There is the Declaration in sepia. (Signed by slave owners. Shhh, hush up about that, now!) See how the sun shines down upon the homesteaders’ wagons racing toward a precious claim in the nation’s future, the pursuit of happiness pursued without rest, destiny made manifest? (Never mind about those same homesteaders eating the flesh of neighbors. Winters are harsh in this country. Pack a snack.) The history is a hungry history. Its mouth opens wide to consume. It must be fed. Bring me what you would forget, it cries, and I will swallow it whole and pull out the bones bleached of truth upon which you will hang the myths of yourselves. Feed me your pain and I will give you dreams and denial, a balm in Gilead. The land remembers everything, though. It knows the steps of this nation’s ballet of violence and forgetting. The land receives our dead, and the dead sing softly the song of us: blood. Blood on the plains. In the rivers. On the trees where the ropes swing. Blood on the leaves. Blood under the flowers of Gettysburg, of Antioch. Blood on the auction blocks. Blood of the Lenape, the Cherokee, the Cheyenne. Blood of the Alamo. Blood of the Chinese railroad workers. Blood of the midwives hung for witchcraft, for the crime of being women who bleed. Blood of the immigrants fleeing the hopeless, running toward the open arms of the nation’s seductive hope, its greatest export. Blood of the first removed to make way for the cities, the factories, the people and their unbridled dreams: The chugging of the railways. The tapping of the telegram. The humming of industry. Sound burbling along telephone wires. Printing presses whirring with the day’s news. And the next day’s. And the day after that’s. Endless cycles of information. Cities brimming with ambitions used and discarded. The dead hold what the people throw away. The stories sink the tendrils of their hope and sorrow down into the graves and coil around the dead buried there, deep in its womb. All passes away, the dead whisper. Except for us. We, the eternal. Always here. Always listening. Always seeing. One nation, under the earth. E Pluribus unum mortuis. Oh, how we wish we could reach you! You dreamers and schemers! Oh, you children of optimism! You pioneers! You stars and stripes, forever! Sometimes, the dreamers wake as if they have heard. They take to the streets. They pick up the plow, the pen, the banner, the promise. They reach out to neighbors. They reach out to strangers. Backs stooped from a hard day’s labor, two men, one black, one white, share water from a well. They are thirsty and, in this one moment, thirst and work make them brothers. They drink of shared trust, that all men are created equal. They wipe their brows and smile up at a faithful sun.

You can’t fight me.” Tearle reminded him harshly. “I know.” In the placid light, his face looked chilled and very weary. “But I can die.

It hated humankind. Yet, the creature remembered when ancient ones left blood stained shrines in its honor. Its greedy eyes watched the peasants, sacrificing precious cattle, in the hope of immunity from its deadly wrath. The creature could recall dairy offerings on cottage steps, left in hope, that it would not invade the sanctity of the mortal homes to steal wailing newborn infants from their cradles. It listened to desperate prayers of farmers as they begged for their pitiful crops. When anglers sprinkled salt upon their fishing nets to satiate its thirst. The creature and its kind spread the killing frosts that foretold of harsh winters. It traversed the heat of the summer skies, voiding the air of moisture during the drought filled months. It burned those feeble little dwellings the people called churches.

But not quite everyone agreed. Leonid Mikhelson, the CEO of the independent Russian company Novatek, was determined to develop LNG export capacity in the north of the Yamal Peninsula. The main inhabitants of this barely populated region are several thousand Nenets, partly nomadic people who move with their reindeer herds, which they supplement by hunting polar bears. In the language of the Nenets, “Yamal” means “end of the land,” and that is what the remote northern part of the peninsula literally is—a harsh, vast, bleak, and treeless land that juts out into the forbidding ice pack of the Arctic Ocean and is underlaid by permafrost. The region is so far north that it is completely cloaked in darkness in the winter and bathed in perpetual polar sunlight during the summer.

I sat there for minutes, seasons, years, the wind becoming winter against my skin, the day becoming night, then blinding again, harsh with detail. I closed my eyes, but the details still shone bright and demanding behind my lids, replacing a lifetime of memories with a single bloody image of Walther, and then, mercifully, the image faded, everything faded, leaving only dull, numbing gray.

Loving you is like the first day of spring after a harsh winter.

Baseball was Expos' play-by-play man Dave Van Horne's livelihood, and he had to press on. He got back to work when play resumed, though he did stage a kind of silent protest. Van Horne carefully wrote the names of the entire 25-man roster on a little index card, then placed that card in his wallet, where it would sit through the harsh winter that followed the '94 disaster, into 1995 and onward. Ask him about it today and Van Horne will pull out that card, read through the names, and flash a sad smile. Twenty years after baseball sabotaged the best team in Expos history, he remembers what might have been. That card-that incredible roll call-will sit in his pocket for as long as he lives, a reminder of a dream destroyed.

Also known as sólja, the national plant of the Faroes. She survives harsh winters, to bloom near water again. In other words, through crisis, she transforms.

hygge their word of the year. The meaning of this Danish term is now well known: it represents cosiness as a kind of mindful practice, a turning towards domesticated comfort to console us against the harshness of the world outside. I am currently burrowing into a hyggelig life, full of candles and tea, judicious quantities of cake, warm jumpers, chunky socks, plenty of time snuggling alone by a lit fire. I wonder if I am perhaps a little too beguiled by this, whether my sense of malaise is actually a lifestyle choice, an urge towards homely perfection to soothe the turmoil that until recently has lurked in my life.

Pressing his forehead against my cheek, wet hair mingled with mine. “Let me make you forget. Let me give you a new memory, esclave.” “His purr hitched my breathing, and happiness sharpened to need. My body wanted him to replace the agony of Brute. Q wouldn’t hurt me. Not like those men. I nodded infinitesimally. Q’s breathing turned harsh, lowering his hand. Agonisingly slowly, he touched my leg, avoiding the lash marks, stroking reverently. Inch by inch, he made his way up my inner thigh, until exploring fingers found my heat.  I jolted as he circled my entrance. More tears erupted, but he kissed them away, adding pressure to his hold, keeping me still. “Écarté pour moi.” Open for me.

Pressing his forehead against my cheek, wet hair mingled with mine. “Let me make you forget. Let me give you a new memory, esclave.” His purr hitched my breathing, and happiness sharpened to need. My body wanted him to replace the agony of Brute. Q wouldn’t hurt me. Not like those men. I nodded infinitesimally. Q’s breathing turned harsh, lowering his hand. Agonizingly slowly, he touched my leg, avoiding the lash marks, stroking reverently. Inch by inch, he made his way up my inner thigh, until exploring fingers found my heat.  I jolted as he circled my entrance. More tears erupted, but he kissed them away, adding pressure to his hold, keeping me still. “Écarté pour moi.” Open for me.

The Norwegian people belong to the Germanic peoples, and we are the Germanic tribe that is needed furthest north. We chose the harder road to the north and have created existence-possibilities in this harsh country in battle against the mountains and the rocky soil, foaming sea, ice and snow and winter darkness up by the Arctic Ocean.

IT was autumn in London, that blessed season between  the harshness of winter and the insincerities of summer;  a trustful season when one buys bulbs and sees to the  registration of one's vote, believing perpetually in  spring and a change of Government.

Yet, by March 9, when Italy imposed its first lockdown, the country had suffered only about nine thousand coronavirus cases and five hundred deaths. With one of the world’s oldest populations and harsh northern winters, Italy regularly suffered severe winter flu epidemics. In the winter of 2014–2015 and again in 2016–2017, influenza and other flu-like illnesses had killed more than forty thousand Italians—eighty times as many as had died from the coronavirus at the time of the lockdown.

If someone’s going to show everyone else their true colors to hurt you – let them.” My grandma said that once. She said sometimes people need to see. They have to look at it and swallow that harsh pill. That’s all I was thinking as I lay there on the dirty floor with the taste of blood in my mouth and what I thought was a broken nose and jaw. Sometimes you have to take a hit from your enemy for them to be seen as what they are.

Best Acne Facial Midtown Winter weather can strip your skin of its natural oils, leaving it dry and flaky. According to the team at Spark Laser Center, known for the best acne facial in Midtown, to keep your skin hydrated, use a gentle moisturizer and avoid harsh skin care products that can dry out your skin even further. Look for products that contain ingredients like glycerin, shea butter, or hyaluronic acid, which are known for their hydrating properties.

Only when you are sad and lonely and your eyes are full of tears on the harsh winter nights does the inspiration come to you to compose the greatest pieces of music in life. When you are happy, inspiration does not come to you, and that was a gift from God to compensate us for the sorrows we are experiencing. We thank you, Lord, for this great blessing that money cannot buyFr

Reading was something I did only as a girl back when my mother was alive. Back then it seemed there was more time in the day and more things to do for pleasure. I know part of that was simply being a child and not knowing how harsh the world could be.

Wait for Me, Daddy August 8, 2024 at 9:46 AM [Verse] Wait for me, Daddy, she yelled, don't leave me behind, Running down the gravel road, her little shoes untied, The sun sinking low, casting shadows on the pines, A memory carved deep, through the years it still shines. [Verse 2] Wait for me, Daddy, don’t let me go astray, Her small voice trembling in the last light of day, As he hoisted his bag, weariness in his eyes, The weight of the world carried with each goodbye. [Chorus] Wait for me, Daddy, I'm almost home, Through the fields of golden corn, and the wildflowers grown, With every step, with every mile's stone, Wait for me, Daddy, you’re never alone. [Verse 3] Years rolled by like rivers flowing, fast and wild, Her heart stayed true, her spirit reconciled, Letters sent from places he had never known, A father’s love, distant but never overthrown. [Bridge] Through winters harsh and summers that gleamed bright, She held his words close, they became her guiding light, Through the laughter, through the tears unshown, She’d whisper to the stars, “Daddy, call me home.” [Chorus] Wait for me, Daddy, I'm almost home, Through the fields of golden corn, and the wildflowers grown, With every step, with every mile's stone, Wait for me, Daddy, you’re never alone.

She not only taught me what it means to work hard, but what it means to be resilient, even when life seems as harsh and unforgiving as an Ohio winter.

The promise of spring will forgive the harshness of winter every time

The Lottery by Stewart Stafford It was New York, 1984, The AIDS tsunami roared in, Friends, old overnight, no more, Breathless, I went for a check-up. A freezing winter's dawn, A solitary figure before me, What we called a drag queen, White heels trembled in the cold. "Hi, are you here to get tested?" Gum chewed, brown eyes stared. This was not my type of person, I turned heel and walked away. At month's end, a crippling flu, The grey testing centre called, Two hundred people ahead of me; A waking nightmare all too real. I gave up and turned to leave, But a familiar voice called out: "Hey, you there, come back!" I stopped and turned around. The drag queen stood there in furs, But sicker, I didn't recognise them, "Stand with me in the line, honey." "Nah, I'm fine, I'll come back again." "Support an old broad before she faints?" A voice no longer frail but pin-sharp. I got in line to impatient murmurs: "If anyone has a problem, see me!" Sylvester on boombox, graveyard choir. My pal's stage name was Carol DaRaunch, (After the Ted Bundy female survivor) Their real name was Ernesto Rodriguez. After seeing the doctor, Carol hugged me, Writing down their number on some paper, With their alias not their real name on it: "Is this the number of where you work?" "THAT is my home number to call me on. THAT'S my autograph, for when I'm famous!" "I was wrong about you, Carol," I said. "Baby, it takes time to get to know me!" A hug, shimmy, the threadbare blonde left. A silent chorus of shuffling dead men walking, Spartan results, a young man's death sentence. Real words faded rehearsal, my eyes watered. Two weeks on, I cautiously phoned up Carol. The receiver was picked up, dragging sounds, Like furniture being moved: "Is Carol there?" "That person is dead." They hung up on me. All my life's harsh judgements, dumped on Carol, Who was I to win life's lottery over a guardian angel? I still keep that old phone number forty years on, Crumpled, faded, portable guilt lives on in my wallet. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.

Harsh times require difficult high-risk decisions. My grandmother was born in February 1884 on a small island off the coast of Norway. On the day of her christening, her father sighted a swirl of fish offshore. A heaven-sent gift for extra mouths to feed in a lean winter? He and his partner rowed out despite the waves. They hoisted their nets again and again, until the boat was full. Should they persist or go home? The fish were still there, and they might not come back, so the men also filled a spare dinghy, connected to their boat by a chain. The wind rose, the dinghy flipped, the chain could not be cut, and both boats went down. My great-grandmother was helpless onshore, holding her newborn daughter as her husband drowned. Optimism and boldness are often worthwhile, but occasionally they are fatal. The perils of risk-taking in a harsh environment may help to explain why my great-grandfather’s surviving descendants have tendencies to anxiety and pessimism.

In winter we often met in cafés and threw pennies into the bellies of noisy automatic barrel organs so that the sound of the music should drown our discussions. In the cafés we got sausage cut into cubes and forks with broken prongs; the sausage stank so badly that even mustard didn't help. We munched our sugar instead of putting it into the tea and broke pieces off the sugar loaf with black tongs. The cafés were noisy but not gay; people came in to get warm, and the harsh misery of home did not forsake them.

Erik was one of those inadequate people who were so scared by life that they preferred to live under harsh authority, to be told what to do and what to think by a government that allowed no dissent. They were foolish and dangerous, but there were an awful lot of them. Carla

Winter was an unforgiving time on Holy Island. Harsh winds from the North Sea whipped through the cobbled streets between the squat, stone cottages which huddled together as if for warmth. Above the village the Priory loomed, crippled but still standing after a thousand years.

She laughed harshly. “I don’t need pity from the likes of you, little island fox. Pity is for the weak.” Silence spun out into the darkness all around us. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t like her. At all. And I suppose I could have felt a kind of grim satisfaction about the hardships this rude, brutish, irritating girl had endured. But I didn’t. I couldn’t imagine how that had felt—to have your own kin treat you like a possession. A cow or a cloak or a sword to be sold or bartered away. But then again, wasn’t that what my own father had been willing to do to me? Give me away like some kind of prize to Aeddan? Maybe the Varini girl and I weren’t all that different. “What’s your name?” I asked her finally. “Why?” “I don’t pity you,” I lied. “But I would like to mourn you if the time comes when I have to kill you. And I can’t do that if I don’t know your name.” The blonde girl’s winter-cold eyes narrowed slightly. Then she uttered a sharp laugh and slapped me—hard—on the back. “I am Elka,” she said.

A likelier explanation for the increase in population was a change in the climate. Northern Europe was perceptibly warmer around 800 A.D. than it had been in preceding centuries. The glaciers receded all over Scandinavia. There was more land that could be used for crops or pasture. The winters were shorter and milder. So significant a factor was winter in the life of northern countries that the Vikings counted time not in years, but in winters. A long cold winter would mean that the provisions put away in the fall might run out while the weather was still too harsh to replenish them by hunting or fishing. It also would mean that the weak, the old, and the young would die. Gentler winters meant that more babies would survive, more would grow up to swell the active, turbulent pool of younger sons

There was another whole bunch of hopefuls. They would diminish down at a startling rate. We had seen it happen before. This time, though, we were there as the “old hands.” And it helped. We knew what to expect; the mystique had gone, and the prize was up for grabs. That was empowering. It was now wintertime, and winter Selection is always considered the tougher course, because of the mountain conditions. I tried not to think about this. Instead of the blistering heat and midges, our enemies would be the freezing, driving sleet, the high winds, and the short daylight hours. These made Trucker and me look back on the summer Selection days as quite balmy and pleasant! It is strange how accustomed you become to hardship, and how what once seemed horrific can soon become mundane. The DS had often told us: “If it ain’t raining, it ain’t training.” And it rains a lot in the Brecon Beacons. Trust me. (I recently overheard our middle boy, Marmaduke, tell one of his friends this SAS mantra. The other child was complaining that he couldn’t go outside because it was raining. Marmaduke, age four, put him straight. Priceless.) The first few weekends progressed, and we both shone. We were fitter, stronger, and more confident than many of the other recruits, but the winter conditions were very real. We had to contend with winds that, on one weekend exercise, were so strong on the high ridges that I saw one gust literally blow a whole line of soldiers off their feet--including the DS. Our first night march saw one recruit go down with hypothermia. Like everyone else, he was wet and cold, but in the wind and whiteout he had lost that will to look after himself, and to take action early. He had forgotten the golden rule of cold, which the DS had told us over and over: “Don’t let yourself get cold. Act early, while you still have your senses and mobility. Add a layer, make shelter, get moving faster--whatever your solution us, just do it.” Instead, this recruit had just sat down in the middle of the boggy moon grass and stopped. He could hardly talk and couldn’t stand. We all gathered round him, forming what little shelter we could. We gave him some food and put an extra layer of clothing on him. We then helped him stagger off the mountain to where he could be picked up by Land Rover and taken to base camp, where the medics could help him. For him, that would be his last exercise with 21 SAS, and a harsh reminder that the struggles of Selection go beyond the demons in your head. You also have to be able to survive the mountains, and in winter that isn’t always easy. One of the other big struggles of winter Selection was trying to get warm in the few hours between the marches. In the summer it didn’t really matter if you were cold and wet--it was just unpleasant rather than life-threatening. But in winter, if you didn’t sort yourself out, you would quickly end up with hypothermia, and then one of two things would happen: you would either fail Selection, or you would die. Both options were bad.

She loved him. He loved her. They both got married, not to each other. :) Down on one knee WILL U MARRY ME? I don't love you and i don't think i ever will held out my ring, will u marry me? I've read my vows to someone else took an oath to keep her safe Wake up next to me for the rest of my mornings when i'm thru with dreams of her and me will u hold my hand? when my flesh is ill n keep me warm against the harsh winter breeze she once held my heart n i don't recall taking it back will u marry me? i'm truly sorry, i am bt all i can offer is a heartless, lifeless version of me will u spend the remainder of our lives together, have children, build a house shut'em people's mouth make them believe, they can all be Juliets n Romeos but there'll not certainly be a love like ours. So will you marry me???

Can the flowers refuse to grow, or the birds decline to sing again just because the winter was harsh? No--but I don't know how they do it, how they keep growing

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