I remember when winter was magical. The first time I saw snow, I was three. I stepped off the front porch and fell through a drift that was taller than I was. Winter in the Finger Lakes was excitingly different from Mississippi. The childish delight of getting cold and wet from snow and staying out until your cheeks and ears were numb. We lived by a dairy farm and had the run of the fields while the cows were kept close. It could also be deadly, like falling through the ice on Canandaigua Lake and walking home before hypothermia set in. Our family dog saved me, that’s another story.
Now, it’s a little more painful. Jumping out of airplanes was fun but tore up my knees and back. Fighting took my hands with arthritis. Even living in Pennsylvania for nearly 25 years hasn’t made me immune to the cold. As much as I love winter sports, I can’t take the exposure much anymore. It hurts too much. Under forty degrees, my hands stop working well. By the time it hits the twenties, my legs don’t want to keep up their end of the whole body working together concept. It’s sad really.
I admit that I still enjoy the cold weather in small doses. I’ll sit in the lodge and drink something to warm me up until everyone else gets done skiing or until it’s not a good idea for me to try to ski. Whichever comes first. Raw fall weather with leaves changing color and the wind whipping around is exhilarating. But it’s painful now, so I’ll take it in smaller pieces and limp through the memories.
(Not me in the pictures, my wipeouts were much worse.)
The New Word Wars 