It's been another day of sub-zero weather - I think I heard them say the fifth day so far this month. And since we had handfuls in each of December and January also, I'm thinking it's some kind of record for the coldest winter in while.
When I moved here, 22 years ago, it snowed on Thanksgiving weekend. I was enchanted with the way the big Victorians in my neighborhood looked surrounded with their quiet, snowy quilt, golden light glowing beyond frosted windows. The squeak under foot, the cleanliness of the landscape. I got ice skates and drew wiggly lines on a frozen lake, holding hands with friends or beaux. I painted water colors of the black silhouettes of oaks against a twilit horizon. I learned to knit.
The snow berms got so tall, cars put ribbons on their antennae so they would be seen by other cars from around a corner. We got snowed in on a couple nights, and people didn't drive, they stayed on my floor until the roads got plowed.
I loved the snow but hated the cold. I whined and shivered like a cowering dog. I hadn't learned to dress for the weather. I was stubborn and vain and dressed more for attraction than for health maintenance. The first time I saw the Ice Palace I cried - not for its beauty, but because my feet were frozen.
It doesn't snow like those first winters anymore. But we have had good snow this season, and bone-penetrating cold. But now I just try to ignore it all, try not to take it personally. I dress in sensible down that covers my butt, with the hood securely snapped around my chin, and boots that keep my feet warm to some sub-zero temperature that I hope never to have to endure for longer than 10 minutes. I am not as enchanted with the scenery, but I still appreciate a cleansing snow to spruce up the landscape. I haven't been ice skating in years.