This photo would suggest the current avatar of a not-so-current "Downeaster" trying to recapture the bucolic memories, sounds and smells of a slower, kinder time: the smell of the fresh-frozen winter air; the skunky-sweet waft of pine needles on the wet forest floor; the crunch of day-old snow under my boots; and the balm of the east coast seashore - a native New Englander - permanently grounded in the southern desert for one reason or another. The seaweed-layered white sand beaches have been replaced by the pale hot Sonoran floor; the blue spruce replaced by cacti and mesquite; and the plucky sea gulls replaced by scavenging raptors. So! Here I sit in the desert, steeped in the palms and yucca, ALL these years later – all dressed up and . . . . waiting for ‘winter.’ Ironic, yes?