Unkind reminders.

Fifty degrees out and breezy, low clouds covering the sky to keep the sun at bay, just cool enough to make a sweatshirt pleasant. This is the sort of winter weather I grew up with, and it's the sort of weather that makes a long bike ride of two to three hours a charming prospect. To head out around through downtown and see what's what, head out past the outskirts and edges out into the fields, along country roads and train tracks and see how the crows are getting along with each other, how many leaves are left and how many have gone, leave urban noises behind.

Or going for a walk, a little hike, in the marshlands and trying to not get muddy boots, spotting wild rose hips and red-winged blackbirds as the only flashes of bright color in the sea of grays and browns, trying to keep an eye out for what birds might be flying around. Letting concerns fall away for a short while.

If this was a full-on proper East Coast winter already, with freezing temperatures and snow gathering on the sidewalk, I know I wouldn't feel this way. I'd be enjoying the cold as best I could, possibly visiting the local winter fairs for a new pair of gloves or a warm hat and a cup of hot cider. The winters here, I've learned to appreciate them.

When the days are the winters I grew up with, even if it's just for a little while, that's when I look out the window and sigh, because the things I want to do don't exist here. There's no marshland to visit, no stream beds to explore. No real way to get away from people without holing myself up in my apartment, and even that's intruded on whenever a loud airplane or helicopter passes over the Hudson.

It's hard to predict the things that stick with you.