On Winter
I grew up and now live in the South. It’s the northern edge of the South, but Southern nonetheless. I have, for virtually my entire life, loathed hot weather. I hated Summer with every fiber of my being (other than the being out of school part, when I was younger). I hated the heat, I hated humidity, I hated being hot, I hated sweating. Hated. With a capital “H” Hated. September was always the longest tease before Fall actually arrived in October. I conveniently forgot that two-thirds of September is still officially Summer.
I always preferred Winter. I liked the sparse landscapes and the cloudy, windy cold days. I loved snow — as does every school-age kid and teacher. I remember reading about dogsledding and fighting through snowdrifts that towered over my head. The snow of the century in Arkansas was about twenty inches, and I’m not THAT short. Winter meant comfort, except in the few coldest weeks. In recent years, since I’ve started getting outside more, I’ve enjoyed the benefits of Winter: less-crowded trout streams, open leafless vistas on hiking trails, no bugs.
But now, after 30-odd years of living here, I find my opinions all but reversed. It’s the oddest feeling to find myself yearing for warm weather, and not dreading the hot weather to follow.
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