Later this month, when it is winter, I will tell you how wonderful it is. I will write about the snow and the frost and the ice, and I will extol the virtues of each. When I do this, I will be lying through my teeth. Today, on this balmy morning in January, I feel no affection towards the winter that is supposed to be engaging me right now. That winter, that miserable, horrible, petulant season that no one truly loves and most can hardly stand, that is the winter that I hate. This winter now, this Nashville winter that I can tolerate- no- that I can celebrate, is what I prefer. If it must snow, I wish for it to snow on Christmas Eve, while I am wrapped in the warmth of a holiday glow, when I am barricaded against that weather and my mood is bright enough. Then snow will be welcome.
When I first placed that countdown in the right hand margin of this site, I thought doing so might backfire (Apple users may not see it due to the absence of flash). After all, days tick away slowly in the darkest of winters. Perhaps to watch a clock will be torture, and I, the cruel moderator who drew attention to it, would be to blame. This was my worry, and like most of my worries, it was unfounded. I placed that clock there when the days measured 155 or more, and now today we are into the 130s. When you take into account that my enjoyment of the lake begins far prior to the first charcoal lighting during that last weekend in May, you can see how I’m shedding days faster than I could ever shed pounds.
Last night, I was driving with my son. We were discussing the weather and making bets as to whether or not the lake will freeze. If it is not frozen by the first of March, I will put the boat in, I told him. But even if the lake does freeze, at least mostly, as is its uncomfortable habit, I will put that boat in on the first of April. Or perhaps the 10th of April if ice permits and I fail to channel my inner Shackelton, but either way it will be early April and it will still be cold, but the lake will be free of ice, as it is now, and I will be on a boat. To my son, the three months that my promise represented seemed like a lifetime. To me it is nothing more than a few more ticks off that steady countdown.
The benefit of a life in fast forward is that the button does not unstick during winter months. While my adult summer is a flash, my adult winter seems to be too. It is aided this year by these unseasonable, righteous temperatures, but it is quickly passing by nonetheless. When summer rushes, and I grab it by its shirttails and dig in my heels and beg for it to stay, its fleeting nature is unfortunate and it fouls my mood. But when winter too rushes, and I push at its back with all my might to aid it along, and I point to a sign in my yard that says “nice to see you, when you leaving”, this is something of a gift. If winter never arrives, and this eternal November lasts with only brief icy interruptions, then I will be one happy March boater.
I realize my dream of a soft winter is likely just a dream. No need to email me and remind me of my folly. This January will turn into a real Wisconsin January soon enough, but not today. On days like today it is still either fall or spring, it is not winter. On days like today I will peek under the big blue tarp that mostly covers my boat, and I will think of days spent at its fiberglassed helm. On days like today I will think of summer, and of a spring that might arrive early. I’ll think about March, and from a 45 degree January day, that spring dream is blocked not by snow or by ice, but by 54 lousy days.