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Winter. What’s so wonderful about it?
I didn’t grow up in the Great White Winter Wonderland, but I spent enough years here to know how to deal with ice and snow. I used to laugh at my Southern friends for being winter wimps. They still talk about my “miracle drive”–a whole seventy miles in three inches of snow. Three inches! It was practically Armageddon! Heh. Dude: you put the car in a lower gear and you drive. It ain’t hard.
I can’t believe I just typed out “dude.”
Anyway. Although I escaped the Winter Wonderland for seven or eight years, I’m back. And it’s that miserable time of the year again, when the snow starts creeping down the mountain and the school buses start carrying their snow chains with them and advertisers start pushing engine block heaters and remote starters. (Other people call this “Fall.” We call it “Winter-proofing Season.”)
Everyone else just pulls out a jacket and gets on with life.
Me? I’ve been corrupted by the years in warmer climes. I’ve pulled out two jackets, six pairs of wool socks, the warmest skiing gloves I could find (perfect for barn work, by the way), two wool hats, all the scarves I own, and I’m considering buying all the silk underwear from the local sports store. What I can’t wear, I can stuff in the sleeves of my jackets for extra insulation.
And I’m still cold.
There isn’t even any snow on the ground! How in the world am I going to survive when it hits that “my eyeballs hurt” temperature? (That’s a real temperature, by the way. It’s colder than the temperature that makes you put on a knit hat even though you look like an idiot with a pom-pom on your head, and warmer than the temperature where you throw a cup of hot coffee on the ground and it freezes before it hits the sidewalk.)
Fortunately, I work from home. Most of the time, I won’t have to out into the deadly cold. But I am going to have to go to the barn regularly. So, just in case: if I stop posting for any length of time, someone call the barn. Tell them to check the fenceline. I’ll be under the unnaturally large drift. They’ll recognize me by the large “SOS: Need ticket to Florida” sign I’ll have carved into the snow right before I died.
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