This Season is Not For Me

My husband and I have an agreement.  When the outdoor thermometer reaches 50, I'll bundle myself up and come out to play (curse Mother Nature for interrupting my hibernation with a balmy Utah December). Winter is not my season. Let me share with you a representation of the wintertime experiences that have chiseled me.

Iowa
Anyone who has grown up in the Midwest will emphatically tell you that cold is cold.  Ice and wet, heavy snow combine with wind to cut through to the bone.  Blizzards trap you inside with the thrill of surviving without electricity.  The moonlight sparkling on deep ice-crusted snow brings peace and creates moments to peacefully ponder an unbroken world.  Until you have to go out in it.

As a teenager I found myself in with an afternoon paper route that I hated.  In summer it was a 2-hour bother.  In winter it was absolute sensory torture.  Trudging through unshoveled sidewalks and drives, I came home soaking wet to painfully thaw out my limbs and digits.  Only one time did I attempt to speed the process along on wheels.  At first the quickness and the dryness seemed a luxury.  What I'd never experienced on foot, though, were the unplowed icy roads.  Barely half an hour into my daily routine I watched my front bicycle tire slip to the left as the back tire slid to the right.  I, with my 25 newspapers, landed flat in the middle of the two. Now wet from head to toe, I picked up my soggy papers, wiped away the tears burning themselves onto my frozen face, and finished the last 90 minutes of my route.

Fast forward 10 years to a better paying job and a better mode of transportation.  We lived on an unmaintained gravel road.  Driving home from my minimum wage job at nearly midnight, I crept along the icy highway to the gravel  home stretch.  Confident I'd made it home, I tried to drive through one last drift.  A mile from home, stuck in the middle of the road, there was no hope of breaking free.  My options were to sit there crying and cursing, or get out and run home...I ran home... in high heel boots with no coat, gloves, or hat.  I ran in the back door, through the kitchen, past my family playing cards, and straight to the blazing fireplace.  I almost jumped into that fire.  My chest and cheeks were burning.  Dad went to dig out my car and an hour later I could finally feel my nose.

Alaska
With a knowledge of how much I hate winter, I should have moved south when I flew my parent's nest.  Instead, I headed north to Fairbanks, Alaska.   The northern lights are magical crackling across the dark night (and dark day) sky, but there's a penalty for that reward.  Every car has snow studs, an oilpan heater, and battery plug-in, and every driver has a second set of keys.  Locked up cars run in the parking lot for hours while their drivers finish their shopping or enjoy a date night movie.

Fairbanks is the place I came to know what -56 degrees feels like.  An innocent evening of dancing turned into something entirely different when our ride decided to leave without telling me.  He did tell my roommate, but well into her New Year's Eve drinking, she decided not to remember that until the bar doors were locking behind us.  Dressed only in a short black skirt and sheer tanktop, I cursed every single life event that had brought me to that place at that time.  Literally freezing to death, we waited huddled together (me gagging with every whiff of my roommate's alcohol breath) for her mom to arrive, chastise us, and deliver us back home.

Utah
Still I didn't feel the kick in the pants telling me to fly for warmer climates.  Rather, I landed here in Utah; home of "the greatest snow on Earth."  Now, Utah winters are mild and endurable compared to what else I've lived through.  The problem is that people who choose to live here do so because there are activities to be doing outdoors all year long.  While my husband and I were dating, he tried to initiate me to his favorite winter activity: skiing.

Worst experience ever.  Both the skiing and allowing my boyfriend be my teacher.  Only making it up the first lift at Sundance, it took me 4 hours to get back down.  I did not have a clue what I was doing.  Every time I was supposed to turn I landed flat on my back (or my front, or my side, or his back, or his side).  I don't know what was more wounded at the end of the day, my body or my pride.  After miraculously getting down the slope one time unbroken, I sent Ben back to the top to get in what he could the rest of the day.  It turned out to only be one more run. We both still feel the pain of that day.

It's been some more years and Utah is still where we stay.  Beck is now 3 and begging us to get on his own pair of skis.  It turns out I woke up one day and found out I was raising mountain babies.  So what do I do?  I watch the snowmen taking shape from the warmth of my living room.  I bundle up and run from the car to the indoor play yards.  I fantasize a day when snowshoeing or cross-country skiing can happen in the heat of July, and I harbor a deep little secret.  I want to tackle the challenge of skiing.  It's cold and the ground is hard, but I want to say I can do it.  Especially if my entire family is soon going to be out there breezing down the hillside.