Legends say that beneath this wintry wasteland (photographed below) was once a land called Patio. Old-timers tell that in this magical kingdom, the people prepared for rituals called barbecues and that they sometimes sat in the balmy air until the sun dipped in the west at the impossibly late hour of nearly nine o’clock. It is said that in Marches past, Patio was already readying itself for the feast times and was the scene of garden clean-up and planted seeds.
But none of the youngsters can remember this Patio of yore, and as they huddle in the centuries-long winter, they ask each other in furtive whispers if Patio ever existed at all. Or maybe it is just the ramblings of the feeble, snow-maddened old minds.
But, somewhere in the darkness, a voice calls out and says, “Believe in Patio and one day your eyes will gaze upon it again.” Hear the echoes in the snow-swept hills… believe in Patio… patio… patio…
