It is a luxury to anticipate the cold weather.
Anticipating winter means you won’t suffer much during it. It means you have good circulation or good heating. It means you aren’t breaking ice to drink your morning draught of water. It means you aren’t thawing your bottle of ink. No chilblains. No frostbite. Fresh green things to eat.
Our move was from a severe climate to a not-severe one. Where we came from winter nights regularly went below 0 Fahrenheit, and summer days regularly went above 100. Summer humidity was wicked. Winter snow and ice were crippling. Our new climate is far milder. Our house doesn’t have air conditioning and we don’t miss it. The roads are smooth and whole, with no freeze-thaw cycle to erode them, and there are lots of old cars on the road. There’s no winter road salt to rust them.
A person goes soft quickly. I am already rolling my eyes at 80-degree days, when where I lived just two months ago that would be a blessed cooling-off somewhere in the middle of September. Still, it is warm enough for me to look ahead to autumn. Warm enough for me to be craving, here at summer’s end, the oncoming woolen socks and long sleeves. I already cuddle under all the blankets at night, but I want to shiver. I want my teeth to chatter. I want lamplight and firelight and big mugs of soup.
It’ll come, and I’m relishing the expectation. Soon–soon–soon. All good things come in time.
The above picture is for Wendy, and anyone else reading The Bear’s Wife somewhere between parts two and four. Don’t worry, retribution comes … and because I’m me, you’ll feel odd about having wanted it.