When I no longer thrill to the first snow of the season, I’ll know I’m growing old. – Lady Bird Johnson

The sky was dark and gloomy, the air was damp and raw, the streets were wet and sloppy. The smoke hung sluggishly above the chimney-tops as if it lacked the courage to rise, and the rain came slowly and doggedly down, as if it had not even the spirit to pour. – Charles Dickens, The Pickwick Papers

Walking through puddles is my favorite metaphor for life. – Terri Guillemets, “Evening walk in solitude,” 1989