It’s been a lo-o-o-ng winter here in Portland, Maine.  Now nearly March, snow tickles the windowsills and blackens the streets.  People warned us of the ugliness of this time when we moved here five years ago.  They urged us to look inward, to remember that spring is on its way, to ignore the permafrost on every surface in this salt-lick of a city.  But in truth, the snow itself, the mountainous banks lining every parking lot, even soot-gray, are a novelty.

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