George Washington, this country's first president, was actually born today, and to mark his 285th birthday—the official celebration is now part of Presidents Day on the third Monday of February—I decided to do something February-ish: put on the skis and enjoy a few laps around my ski track. Call it a commemoration of that notable birth, combined with an activity that, historically, would have been appropriately seasonal. We're just past mid-winter, and, at this time of the year, the snow should be about as deep as it's going to get and there should be at least another storm or two in the forecast. I should have plenty of skiing left. But "should" and "normal" have themselves gone the way of history, and, with the continued warm spell apparently here to stay, the ski track is now reduced to a couple of inches of white that covers little more than half the back lawn. Most of the snow is gone in the woods, and it's disappearing fast on the grass. Today, I think, is the end of one of my favorite parts of winter, so out I went, trying to find a path that kept my skis off the increasingly exposed green. I managed quite a few laps, but by the time I had finished, even more of the snow was gone. The gaps had widened beyond my ability to jump them. Early or not, it was time to call it a season.