Wisconsin old-timers speak of harsher winters in days gone by, but I’m telling you that it’s colder than penguin snot here today. Wind chills are twenty below zero, which I recently learned is an actual number, and I believe that I am now permitted to use the phrase “frigid conditions.”
I was born in 1970 and grew up in the northeastern corner of Arkansas where we would get several inches of snow each winter, sometimes more, sometimes less. I remember my mother making delicious snow ice cream when it arrived, and I recall sledding adventures and snowball fights, building snow people and making snow angels, listening for school closures on the radio and learning to drive on icy roads. I also remember terrifying my parents in a pre-cellphone era by driving home from college in a driving snowstorm, and I recall college days in the mountainous northwestern tip of Arkansas where one October I walked across campus marveling at such an early snow. And best of all, back in my hometown in the early days of my post-college professional career, I remember an unusual winter ice storm in 1994 that provided a couple of uninterrupted weeks to get to know Jody, which undoubtedly accelerated our relationship—the best thing that ever happened to me.
So it makes sense that the winter season produces a sweet sentimentality in my mind.
But in early 1999, just before the turn of the millennium, we embarked on a twenty-year journey that led us to live on two separate, beautiful coasts with abundant sunshine and insignificant winter—and it was as glorious as it sounds. When prompted, I often repeated a new friend’s response to the question of whether he missed the beauty of a snow-filled winter: “If you miss what it looks like, buy a picture.” I joked that I was getting spoiled, not really suspecting that a joke might still be true.
We moved to Nashville in 2019, a snazzy Southern city that expects a few inches of snow each year, which reminded me of my Arkansas home, and I was caught off guard by my happy heart when the snow fell from the sky, discovering that I owned a special smile that I had not realized was missing.
We then moved to rural Illinois in 2021, a step up in winter world for us, where a foot or so of snow is expected every winter, and I noticed that the special smile moved with me.
And here we are in Wisconsin in 2024, a winter wonderland that expects at least three feet of snow each year, and I am trying to explain to those of you scratching your heads why I am particularly happy.
Physically, I am not built for the winter. I’m not built for winter at all. I am skinny (no insulation). I am bald (no protection). To overshare, I have a thyroid condition that leaves me susceptible to cold weather and is better suited for a desert. But emotionally, I still smile each time it snows, and I noticed not long ago that cold weather triggers a set of previously forgotten memories that awaken a child that was ironically hibernating inside of me.
It is colder than a polar bear’s pajamas outside today. Sheesh, it is brutal and even dangerous. As Dean Martin might describe it, the weather outside is absolutely frightful, and I don’t suppose I will ever adjust to twenty below. But I’m telling you that somehow and somewhere in the mysterious interior of my mind and heart burns a magical little fire that is positively delightful.
I was born and raised in Arkansas. I love Arkansas. Now I live in California. And I love California. But recently I was reminded that a significant part of my heart remains in Mississippi.
Starting to Look Up 