Winter Days

And just like that, a week of sweet, warm February days is done and winter returns. The air is icy and the wind howls like a hungry coyote, everything is gray and lightly coated with frost. The dogs run out, disappear for a minute or two, then hastily trot back inside and make for the love seat and the warmth of the throw blanket. I find them curled so tightly together I can't see where one ends and the other begins. They don't even wait for a morning biscuit and while I want nothing more than to join them and stay put until April, it's up to me to keep the heat going, the lights on and their bowls filled. I ease into a second layer of long johns and pull on a second pair of socks, find yesterday's jeans and hooded sweatshirt, slip into my Nikes, gloves, knit cap with matching muffler, and prepare to face the outside day. I reach for the door knob and can practically feel my courage slipping away. Then at the last second, it dawns on me that I've forgotten my teeth and I get a momentary reprieve. I'm not entirely sure what I expected retirement or in my case, semi-retirement would be like but I'm reasonably sure this isn't it. One step outside and I'm paralyzed by the cold and overflowing with resentment at having to leave my solitary nest. Rational or not, I take winter's persecution quite personally. Golden years, my ass, I think as I fling my muffler over my face and make a dash for the car.

I thought, lo those many years ago, that Louisiana was far enough south to move to escape winter. I was seduced by that first 70 degree Christmas around the swimming pool, never anticipated ice storms and the other freaks of weather I've seen, torrential rains leading to massive flooding followed by droughts, tornadoes, hail, wicked, bitter cold that burns your face and numbs your fingers and toes. Summers, brutally hot as they may be, are never long enough to suit me. Given the choice of a blast furnace or a deep freeze, I'll take the heat every time.

About a quarter of the way to work, the little blue car is warm enough for me to discard my gloves and let my muffler slip off my face. The sun, weak and anemic but making an effort, starts to show through the slow moving clouds. The light is slim and by no means certain, but at least there's hope. When I arrive at Michael's and navigate my way through an avalanche of over-excited and unrestrained dogs, the house is relatively but reassuringly warm. I begin to think I may survive another day.