PAUL CHRISTENSEN

I'm back in France after an unrelenting winter, with bitter winds and rains that fell like lead pellets. The news of flooding was pretty every other day, and the poor school kids would pass in their yellow bus looking gloomy and resigned. We kept getting battered by offshoots of the polar vortex, which sent down sheets of icy weather once a week, while the tiny little flowers in my garden peeped up their heads and took a wary look at the way things were going. They had no cho