Last week, I tried to take the most bitter perspective on winter as the Underwarm Man while having a bit of fun with Dostoevsky at the same time. This week, with an encomium to winter, I would like to offer my community a more positive perspective on these cold days.
From somewhere in the early minutes of eight o’clock till nigh on nine, the morning light is reflected in golden majesty off the blanket of snow. Only we lucky few who live in such northerly regions have a wealth composed of such currency. I sing of temperatures and a season, which some of late have found reason to curse and complain. I’ll have you see the glister of frozen fog in the same chilly gust that stings your cheek, and declare that winter brings to life a smattering of nuances that are easily frozen and forgotten in depths of February.
There is simply no denying that in winter there is a delightful crispness — which some may disdainfully call “briskness” — that is the same wonderful quality found in apples of the best variety. Of course the air is cooler, and I sometimes find myself trying to hug my head with my shoulders to warm my ears, but there is also a brightness in this wintry crispness. At no other time of the year does the sun shine forth from the very ground we walk on, and I don’t know about you, but brightness tends to make me happier. The crispness of winter extends to making, somehow, even the sipping of a hot cup of cocoa so much more enjoyable than the same activity done on a spring day. Finally, curling up with a good book is always better with a soft blanket, and a soft blanket is always better when there is a crisp chill. So you see? Winter can make lots of things better by the very nature of its crispness.
Then there is the snow itself. Now I’m not much of a romantic, but there is just something about seeing full, fluffy flakes fall slowly past my window that makes me want to sit up and recite poetry. Such a sight has the ironic effect of making me feel suddenly warmer; I think I smile subconsciously, too. I do feel bad for the statues, though. If it didn’t border on idolatry, I’d have a mind to prop up an umbrella over poor Mr. Jefferson’s chair when it snows (he is a southern gentleman after all, poor man). Although the last time I passed him in the snow, he looked dusted in powdered sugar — such is the sweetness of winter!
You notice things in wintertime that you wouldn’t in the spring. The other day, I could make out all the intricacies of a squirrel’s footprints in the snow. I noticed that he had followed the sidewalk right up to my door — who knew squirrels used sidewalks? Furthermore, though I’ve never thought empty fields an ugly sight, I was absolutely struck the other day by the magnificence of a bare cornfield embraced by a covering of snow; it seemed to give the place extended depth and detail. It seemed to give it a tinge of extraordinary.
Why is winter associated with despondency? Friend, look around and hope! If not now, when? What is the resurrection without death? The fecundity of springtime is impossible without the decaying doldrums of winter, and there are plenty of signs of its promised return to give us good reasons to hope. So, on the edge of your seat! Let us be on pins and needles! Let us not lose our sense of wonder at snow, icicles, and trees that look like they were dipped in crystal glass. Though some may bemoan the lower temperatures and extended stays of snow drifts, when I think on the subtleties of this season, like Phil Connors in “Groundhog Day” before me, “I couldn’t imagine a better fate than a long and lustrous winter.”
