Winter – unless you’re 13 years old and get to avoid a day or two in a government school every now and then, courtesy of the white shit that falls from the sly – sucks.
It is like home detention. You know, not prison as such. They just make your home a prison, forcing you to wear an ankle bracelet that keeps you from going anywhere. Snow – and cold – does the same thing.
This is supposed to be the South. I can deal with a Southern winter. A month of harsh cold, maybe – but for the most part daytime temperatures in the mid-high 30s, often rising into the ’40s and ’50s. You can still wear shorts – with wool socks and a sweatshirt. But none of this Eskimo kabuki of putting on multiple layers and making sure no skin is exposed just to make the 400 yard trek down to the mailbox and back without incurring damage – and forget about riding motorcycles or even taking the classic muscle car out because of the got-damned road salt that now covers everything and will not be gone until it’s rained hard for several days and that requires temperatures that aren’t freezing.
Everything is on hold. Except, of course, feeding the wood stove. When it is cold like this, the stove is hungry. I have already gone through three full cords of wood (that’s a stack 4 feet tall, four feet wide and eight feet long) and the got-damned winter is only about half over. What is normally cozy and even fun has become a chore.
It depresses me to go out to the garage and see all the bikes I can’t ride, the car I can’t drive. Forget running, too. That outlet – which helps keep me from the bottle and other destructiveness – is denied me. Try running on glaciated crusty snow through 20-30 MPH wind gusts on a 16 degree day. You will never father children, I assure you.