Four o’clock in the morning. I still can’t sleep. Insomnia. Worse than usual, even. I went for a walk around the house and realized very quickly that I should have grabbed a sweater. Or even a coat. I picked up the cat, for warmth. His fur was cold. The leaves were crunchier than usual. Even the stars looked cold. The outside of the car was like ice; that little kid from “A Christmas Story” would have lost his tongue to the door handle. The car windows were frosted over.

Our car has to sit outside, even though we have a big two-car garage.

The garage is so full of ‘stuff’ that there’s no room for any vehicles. It’s the bicycles and the toys and the lawn mowers and the luggage and the table saw that take up all the room.

Poor cars. Evicted by a table saw.

But then, who or what in its right mind would willingly go up against a table saw? Heck, it’s so crowded in there, Freddy Krueger could be hiding behind something. Our wise cars wish to take no chances.

Maybe when all that frost melts in an hour or so, the windows will be cleaner. At least in streaks.

By the time I have to go to work, the weather should be better. Of course, by the time I go home again, the windows will be frosted again.

Indiana. Where we turn on the heater in the morning, the air conditioner in the afternoon, and the heater again when the sun goes down.

No wonder our cars are all confused.

Hoosiers know what it means to blow hot and cold. It’s our climate. Our idiomatic climate.

I’m assuming you all know what an idiom is . . . . .