It’s the dead of winter in Narragansett. The kind where the sky looks like it forgot what color it’s supposed to be and the wind has a personal vendetta against your face. And naturally—because that’s how memory works—my mind drifted to warmer times. Specifically, to a November visit from friends who live in Florida.
They were born in Puerto Rico, relocated to Florida for careers and sunshine, and had arrived in New England armed with expectations… and very light jackets.
Right out of the gate, the observations began.
On our drive to Boston, one of them gazed out the window and said—not unkindly, but with genuine confusion—
“It’s very… gray. And brown.”
This wasn’t criticism. This was heartbreak.
She had seen photos of her daughter on a Boston campus in summer—lush lawns, leafy trees, blue skies—and had apparently assumed New England simply paused those visuals for her arrival.
“The trees are bare,” she added, squinting suspiciously.
“I thought the leaves changed color in the fall.”
“They did,” I said. “You missed them. By… weeks.”
Then came the clothing commentary.
“It’s too cold. You have to wear so many layers.”
“And the wind—why does it do that?”
At this point, I realized how limited their exposure to seasonal mood swings had been. Palm trees do not prepare you for November in Massachusetts. Neither does a year-round average temperature of 73 degrees.
I wanted to say, “Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore,” but worried that Wizard of Oz references might be misinterpreted as mockery. So instead, I nodded sympathetically while silently defending four full seasons like a proud parent.
Back at our house, things escalated.
“The water comes out of the tap… cold,” one of them whispered.
They gathered around the kitchen sink as if witnessing a scientific anomaly. Cold water. On demand. No ice. No explanation. Smiles.
I briefly considered inventing a wildly elaborate story about a thermal well drilled deep into the bedrock of Rhode Island—an engineering marvel involving fracking, really—but decided this level of teasing is reserved strictly for family.
When I finally said, very calmly, that I wouldn’t live anywhere else in the world, they exchanged that look.
The one that says, “I think he means it.”
And I did.
Because now, in the dead of winter—when Narragansett feels wrapped in gray flannel, and the ocean looks steel-blue and serious—I know what’s coming. Spring sneaks in. Summer shows up loud and glorious. Fall puts on its outrageous color show like it always does.
And when it does, I’ll appreciate every single green leaf, warm breeze, and long evening just a little more…
Because winter reminded me what we’re waiting for—and why Rhode Island is worth it all.
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