"The winds of Thor are blowing cold."

- Led Zeppelin, No Quarter

Weather records always snare my curiosity. When 12 feet of snow buried Mexico, NY, I read all I could as less than a foot pushed Central Ohio to mayhem's border.

With the news, I'm not concerned with where the weather comes from, whether the snow squalls paralyzing us let the jetstream drag them across the Midwest or if the vestige of a hurricane ran against the normal weather patterns to saturate the region.

I want to see that little box with the record lows and highs. They are nostalgic numbers owing nothing to modern viewers, with a high mark set in 1897 and a low during an unusual spring in 1952.

This spring, a few weeks after mad weather spat out a frigid St. Patrick's Day, the records rolled in. On a recent March day, we tied a previous high in March. Yesterday, we beat past 79 and 80 degrees claimed a new record.

This morning, it's gusting, around 40 and falling fast. The wind's assault has gone on for 12 hours, scattering the sun and ushering in a sheet of thunderheads.

Now, as someone who will sleep with open windows as long we've not reached the freezing point or the July humidity stays out of the 90 percentile, this morning was a shock.

Going to bed as Jay and Dave began to blab, it was mild; a single sheet worked for comfort
.
Around 4 a.m. - time of the cat's second attempt to coerce me into dumping his daily fix of wet food - the chill grew. When his final effort for early breakfast failed around 6, I was beneath the covers with an old Nogales blanket insulating me.

Even the cat crawled underneath, his instincts conflicted by spring's vanishing act.

And the windows narrowed down to slits. Hey, it hasn't dropped below freezing ... yet.