This Warm Winter

On Friday, January 17th, those who measure and then record weather marked that the daytime high in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin was 19 degrees. Those counterparts who measure the temperature in Marco Island, Florida scratched down a 64. Not a single living being would ever argue that 64 is not warmer than 19. The sun was warm, and that day as I fished and played under it I felt its warmth and appreciated what it did for my sun-deprived winter existence. I also didn’t feel all that warm.

And so it went, a few days under the warm-ish sun, a few more days under some clouds that filtered that sun and dialed down its warmth to where it was barely tepid. My children didn’t mind. They splashed in the cold ocean as if it were a hot tub, and they swam in the pool as though it were just a great big bath, soap replaced with a cocktail of chemicals that make the water clean and blue. They played in the water, while I huddled under the sun and hid away from the wind, and at times I re-purposed a beach towel into the thinnest of blankets. I was cold, not warm.

In the elevator on the day before I was to return home, a woman remarked that she heard that I was heading home soon, and that this was unfortunate for me. I had to return to the cold, she said with a slow, sad shake of her head. She wished it wouldn’t be so cold back home, back up north, back where people must be insane to live and work and play in spite of the season and not because of it. I told her, in a way that proves that I am bad at elevator banter, that it’s cold back home in Lake Geneva, and it’s cold down here in Marco Island, and I’d rather have the Lake Geneva cold over this cold. This was tantamount to sacrilege, as I dared question the benefit of a 60 degree day over a 20 degree one. She didn’t say much after that, and later my wife reaffirmed her distaste for my unsolicited commentary.

When the plane landed at O’Hare, I knew it was cold outside. The wind tore into us as we made the short walk from terminal to waiting car. We raced as if being exposed to a toxic fallout. Inside the car it was not much warmer, though the rope lighting that wrapped around the ceiling of the car switched from one warm color to another, pastels of all varieties, all warm looking. The ride in that car from the airport to where our car was stashed for the week was cold, but it was colder when we jumped from that livery and into our absolutely frozen car. When our car sprung to life I admitted to being surprised, though no one in the car could hear me over the chattering of their own teeth. It was cold.

Last night, at home in my den that I built at least one foot too shallow, I stoked a fire. I long ago ran out of oak, so what burns now is a mix of whatever downed deciduous tree I can find on my property. The half rotted wood burns like gasoline once it’s dry, so while the flame doesn’t last long like an oak flame would, it’s still bright and crackly and warm. The fire threw heat into the room, the sun faded outside leaving the white ground looking like a pale blue, a blue that reminded me of the LED lighting in the car, even though it looked nothing like it at all. The scenery outside was unmistakably cold, but anyone who questions the quality of a winter sunset hasn’t been paying attention. The sun faded, the snow covered ground reflected its muted display, and I was finally warm.

I don’t feel warm under a foreign sun in the winter. Having spent every one of my 35 winters in the cold and snow, I am programmed to know what winter should be. I know that winter sun on a far away beach is as synthetic as an Iowa trout stream, and I know this even when that sun warms and stings my skin. I know where I belong, and I know where I find real warmth. It’s in front of a snapping fire, in a warm house surrounded by cold and snow, during the middle of another Wisconsin winter.