This is the memory palace. I'm Nate Demet.

The colors were all wrong. It was June, and the leaves weren't their full green,

that deep green, that summer green. In the late afternoons never got gold.

The trees never shown as the angle of the sun shifted, and colored the whole canopy.

And then that line of light never drew up toward the tree tops like a rising curtain,

as the shadows made their entrance.

The mornings were March Gray, and noon was no brighter. In the sunsets were this red that was just

wrong, that same red that flares sometimes at the edge of the horizon for just that moment just

as the sun slides away. That red was everywhere, the whole of the western sky, for hours before

nightfall. It was beautiful, but it was all wrong. And then the words the white, there shouldn't be

any white, not in June, not in New England, not in Europe at the edge of summer.

There never had been, not for as long as anyone alive could remember, but in Vermont, to pick a spot

in the globe. In the Fourth of June in 1816 there were snow drifts three feet tall.

The crops, the corn and wheat, and barley that had grown in green, as they should all spring,

were now buried in white, and were dying.

In Italy, another spot in the globe where it snowed, where it shouldn't snow.

The color of that snow was all wrong, a reddish brownish orange, draping the hillsides,

usually green with yellow sunflowers, all throughout Europe, all throughout that summer that summer

never came. Snow, and ice to over streams, and temperature swings, you would be sweating one morning,

you'd be freezing the next. The colors all wrong, the smells all wrong, that feeling, that even

then though the work was hard and vacations were not existent for most,

that feeling that it was summer, that the living was easy, that the pond was finally warm for swimming,

...