Forty degrees is cold in Georgia, colder than thirties or twenties. It's the wind; chills to the bone. At twenty, things get still almost giving you a chance to get out of it. By the thirties your mind is resigned to, the cold is not going anywhere. But when it's March, and you think the worse of winter is gone: here comes forty. But I don't mind. We need something for the bugs. My apartment complex isn't getting any younger. Two felled trees sit in the parking spot where my oldest neighbors live. I look up and there's a hand sized hole at the bottom of the gutter, great for tree climbers to get through and make a home. But most importantly, Georgia forties keep the mosquitos away.
