I love the idea of winter. I love being inside, a fire rampaging in the fireplace, drinking a nice glass of wine, or a great glass of Scotch. My arm around Fanbin, while she snuggles deep into the blankets. The wood fibers pop and crack, sending pieces of log flying as if they were a corn kernel popping. The wind screams like a band of crazed Celts. It slams across the wooden shell of the house, tearing and clawing across shingles, and eaves, and gutters.
But if I had to go out into the cold and nastiness, I am chilled to bone. I hate to be cold; the way it sinks into sinews and joints, and blood vessels. The cold saps my mind, slows my reaction time, thought process, and reflexes. My feet slowly go numb. My hands don’t want to open. My ears burn red. Winter is better as an idea, rather than an experience.
It doesn’t depress me so much as makes me miserable.
ater the storm in the gorge
Winter-frozen air which burns my nostrils. perfect weather for starting a fire. sitting by that fire with fanbin, kissing her ears. listening to the snow fall. the smell of dried timber, the crackle of tree fiber as the fire consumes log after log.
Spring-new buds on trees. Cardinals return. soft evening showers. the 1st day to fish after a long winter. the links that first time of the the new year.
Summer-softball games with friends. walking through this town at night. the cicadas rustling wings permeate the silence. the full moon-lighting up empty yards and deserted parking lots. the soft hum of a cars motor as it glides by in the night, blocks away. a cool break from oppressive summer heat waves. a cooling shower to wash away the stickiness of the day.
Fall-cool days and the smell of the first fires, as people warm their homes. leaves turning from green, to gold, to orange, to red, and finally to brown. walking through the night pulling up my collar to ward off the chill. the rustle of fallen leaves as I step on them. scurrying chipmonks and squirrels run to and fro-mouths full of nuts. going to the lock and dam on the mississippi, sitting in the car watching eagles and hawks sail on air currents. Circling and circling as the sun sinks behind the line of trees on the missouri side-signaling the day’s end.