Deluded Western New Yorkers have fallen for that most cruel of weather tricks, the late Indian summer.
A few days of mist, gentle rain and even balmy sunshine and the shorts and t-shirts are out, as is hubby's beloved 1964 Volvo 1800 (remember "The Saint") complete with spanking red restored upholstery. Its been temporarily reprieved from going to winter quarters. It was just too hard to resist a jaunt along the country lanes, tractors out harvesting the dried corn stalks, red barns standing out from the leafless trees, their old bones warmed by the sun.
We had to go and pick it up from way beyond Cuba and no, this didn't involve swimming; there is a local town called Cuba as there are local towns called Wales, Sardinia, Holland and Yorkshire...
But the salt peril still hangs over us and in my subconscious I can hear snowploughs revving up. The say that tomorrow we'll wake to an inch of snow.
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