Winter has never been one of my favorite seasons. Each October 1, when I see the geese begin their southward trek to warmer, sunnier climes, a small sadness invades my heart. I know that the days will grow shorter, the nights longer and colder.
Though the sun will actually be closer to the earth in physical miles, it will seem colder on this side of the equator. Folks in Australia will be heading for the beach for Christmas! As much fun as this sounds, this side of the equator is the only side that counts for me.
The redeeming social value of November and December is the coming of the holidays. Who would not be thrilled to see family and friends over a great Thanksgiving feast and the annual drubbing of the Detroit Lions by whatever team was fortunate enough to play them that day. This and the drumstick were MY highlights. Forget film at 11!
Christmas was always my favorite holiday because of the presents of course. As a child, all else was secondary. Not even mom's sausage stuffing prevailed against the gifts from the family. One of my very favorites, the metal carousel from my grandfather.
Reminiscent of the old time tin toys, this thing was huge and painted a raucous red, yellow and blue. When wound up, the horses and riders circled the carousel. Underneath was a bicycle bell. This device was attached to a lever that rang it with the circular motion of the carousel. So the entire time the carousel spun the bell shrilled in ear splitting octaves. I was 4. I loved it. The parents hated it. It wound up in the basement on a high shelf.
New Year's Eve was another magical time. Either my uncle or my aunt hosted a house party complete with baked ham,macaroni salad and make-pretend hi balls for the kids. We thought we were hot stuff. If all the family came, it was extra special.
Unfortunately, January came next. With its icy breath, the north wind blew Old Man Winter, as my grandmother used to call him, into town.
Talk about an unwelcome guest who outstays his welcome, Old Man Winter and his cousin Jack Frost made this month unbearable.
Short, dark, days and long, cold everlasting nights seem never to have an endpoint in sight. Cocooned in the blankets, one peers outone -eyed to see what lay in wait.
Inevitably the hand of Jack Frost could be seen on the windows. There were tiny flakes of ice in a myriad of patterns. A toe on the bare wooden floor convinces me that this was a day in which it would be far too dangerous and cold to venture out.
Of course school took precedence over comfort, Catholic school at that.
January meant either walking against the wind all the way to school, or slogging through ankle deep snow uphill both ways or worse.
There is slush. Ugly, grey, sloppy, gloppy stuff that defines all that is wrong with winter. Neither snow, nor water, slush infiltrates everything. No matter how high the red rubber boots come up the skinny legs , somehow this amorphous blob of ice/water manages to get inside and make socks grey and defies the purpose of keeping feet warm and dry. I recall peeling socks from my blue toes as one peels a banana.
January inevitably freezes its way into February. The hour of the Great Snowflake is then at hand. Now back in the day, weather prognostication was not as sophisticated as in current time.
If, as a child, I asked Great Grandpap if it was going to snow, he turned his face north, sucked a moment on his index finger, then held said digit up to the wind. He would frown a second then take down his finger and shake his head. "Not today," he would say, "mebbe tomorrow." This was weather forecasting Grandpap style. Funny thing, he was seldom wrong.
Now we have doppler radar and even a program that can tell you exactly when the tornado is going to hit your house. Since 1958 there is a program has thrilled children old and young around the world by tracking Santa and his sled on Christmas Eve! No mere snowstorm is going to get past Santa and the sled.
February has one redeeming feature. It is shorter than January. Sometimes the snow is deeper, the wind colder, the January thaw later, but after 28 days I know the first of March is only a wake up away.
No matter the weather on 1 March, I scour the southern sky for the geese. They KNOW it is time to fly north again. Like Grandpap, They never fail me.
By the next week the robins are back and the days begin to lengthen noticeably. When I see these signs I know I have made it through another winter and I will see another spring.
Tonight I heard the tiny frogs in the pool behind the house crooning loudly to their lady loves. Soon the song of the newly hatched baby frogs will add their falsetto to the midnight cacophany.
If the powers that be ever want to change the calendar again, I gladly give them January. Besides being an altogether depressing and disagreeable month, it also happens to be the month in which my ex husband was born. I definitely would forgo that pleasure.
