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It's is one of the few times of the year where the simplest of memories come rushing back to me. Last year, I stood out on the stone ledging of my home that sat perching on the top of a small hill, wrapped in layers of fleece and up to my knees in snow. The blanket of white covered all eight acres I could see and painted the forest edging the border with crystal. This year, I stood in the same place, eight days before Christmas and I was perfectly comfortable in my shorts and a thin tank top. With the exception of a slightly chilling early morning breeze, it was practically a barren spring. Even though I was standing on cement, I could tell that the ground was flooded from the grass down. It seems as though a white Christmas simply wasn't a possibility this year, despite how far north we are.