I could tell the freeze was coming for sure, when Pip and I were out walking at midnight, the sky clear, the stars bright, my breath condensing in front of me as he pulled his way around the block, energized by the cold and his purblind will.
Come morning, I jumped out of bed, expecting to find the lawn completely rimed with frost, a thick white coating on it, but instead found just a trace on scattered portions of the back yard. And a close-up check of the unprotected plants revealed they hadn't been nipped by it, not even the okra, native of Africa.
Carl H. Klaus, My Vegetable Love: A Journal of a Growing Season
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