by Kerry Dougherty

It was late Sunday night when my son blew in the back door. I was standing just inside, fleece, rain jacket, hat and mittens on, leashes in hand, about to walk the dog.

“Wanna come with me?” I asked.

“Sure,” he replied to my surprise.

It was about 38 degrees and drizzling. The exact sort of raw weather that makes me wonder why anyone thinks Virginia Beach is a 12-month destination.

It’s not.

“Grab a jacket,” I said, gesturing to the coat rack bursting with an assortment of foul weather gear.

“I’m fine,” he said, adding the obligatory, “I went to school in Buffalo, remember?”

That again. 

Every time my kid ventures out – underdressed – into the cold, he reminds me of the four years he spent in God’s refrigerator.

And as usual, my 20-something son was wearing his year-round uniform: T-shirt and shorts.

I didn’t glance at his feet. But a few minutes into our walk, when he stepped into a deep puddle and let out an involuntary WHOA, I realized he was wearing flip-flops.

In January. In an icy rain. Continue reading.