Chestnuts roasting by an open fire, Jack Frost nipping at your nose -- The Christmas Song, Mel Torme and Bob Wells, 1944
A dusting of snow on Mt. Tam in Mill Valley? Icicles on the bunches of grapes in the Napa vineyards? Rare, rare occurrences in California where I live now; but then, it is mid-December and for the rest of the country it is time to break out the warmest gloves, the wool hat, the sturdy pea coat. Cover the delicate plants outside so they won't freeze, wrap up the water pipes in insulated blankets, and then revel in the glorious run-up to winter.
At one point I lived in the Boston area -- for five years, in fact. Now, winter in that neck of the woods is serious: for example, driving on country roads with patches of "black ice," which is treacherous because it's nearly invisible. And one December I almost fell as I walked down the slippery steps of the publishing house at 34 Beacon Street, where I was working. But I'm still laughing as I recall the Town of Wellesley's snowplow barreling down streets, throwing snow right back on the same sidewalks that industrious residents had just shoveled.
On a winter weekend in New England, probably around 1962, I piled into a station wagon with my cousin Alfie and a couple of his kids, and we drove from Boston to New Hampshire. Our destination was Mt. Cardigan, where we would all go skiing. Well, for me, this was truly a huge undertaking, since I'd never been skiing in my life. I was game to try, but I seemed to end up spending more time making "snow angels" on the ground than actually flying down the slopes. Plus, I was a bit intimidated, since my five-year-old cousin was already two ski classes ahead of me! The best part of my trip to Mt. Cardigan? No question -- drinking hot toddies at the lodge by the roaring fire.
So while this Spirited Woman definitely loves the change of seasons, I have to admit that I'd rather look at snow on television from the comfort of my cozy, warm living room than actually be out there, dancing among the flakes and icicles.
Linda Jay Geldens, www.LindaJayGeldens.com
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