Chilled Musings...

The possibility of snow for this weekend has been predicted by the local weather channels. I'm certain my friend Quietsail is bemoaning the onset of colder weather in direct inverse proportion to the degree with which I am anticipating it.

He recently commented at lunch that he didn't understand in the least how I could revel in cold weather, shaking his head in disbelief and dismay.

"Not all of us," I replied, "Are meant to be Vikings."

Perhaps I'm not meant, honestly, to be a Viking either, despite the fact that The 13th Warrior is my favorite movie; although I have a decided predilection for fur hats and grunting I really do enjoy my modern conveniences. Still, winter has always meant something special to me and I adore snow. Part of it is, of a cert, every child's fascination with the white stuff. "Oh, I love snow, too," someone is thinking. Yeah, I'm sure you do; but trust me, this is different. I really love snow, enough so that when it's available I'm known to lay down and roll in the stuff with a kind of feral glee.

My love of the cold always was, however, compounded by my upbringing and the fond memories I associate with winter.

Daily life on the farm consisted of two things: Work, and Screaming. I don't honestly recall ever completing a task to my father's satisfaction and so long as we were working together my ears were filled with his open irritation and derision, anything ranging from my poor performance all the way to placing blame for any mishap.

But then there was Snow.

Because my father's legs weren't very strong he came to rely on my labour as I grew older, especially when conditions turned wintry and hazardous. Rather than accompany me to feed the herd he would give me relentlessly precise instructions on how to:

- Pick up a bale of hay
- How to carry said bale of hay from any given barn
- How far to carry it from said barn
- How to drop it
- How to cut the stupid strings binding it
- How to pull the strings away
- An explanation of why the strings should be pulled away
- How to walk away
- How to return to the barn
- How to pick up another bale of hay with fully reiterated instructions because of my flagging memory of performance since the previous bale of hay...

You get the tedious idea.

But on snow days when the weather was rough I was often sent out on my own, sans truck, which meant a long walk through the elements -- but the walk was mine, the work was laborious but quiet... I was finished when I was finished (and often not for quite a while after). Work which might take the two of us a solid two hours were at first accomplished within one and one half, but quickly turned into as much as three or four hours, including a leisurely walk around parts of the farm where my presence wasn't required in the least. You see, it was peaceful, nothing out there except me and the other animals, the wind and the cold.

With only the *crunch... crunch... crunch* of my plodding steps and the low moan of the boreal winds to accompany me, with no one to talk to but no one to disturb me, I truly was in the budding days of my Sasquatchiness. Every plumed breath took a little of Tame Michael away, every drawn breath which crackled my lungs pulled in something a bit more earthy.

That's part of what I've come to associate with the cold over the years.

There's more; after all, who doesn't enjoy playing outside when the air is chilled, only to come inside and heighten that enjoyment with a cup of cocoa or a nice toddy? Who doesn't like to kick their feet out of cold, wet boots and socks, propping those piggies up beside a roaring fire? Who doesn't become pleasantly drowsy as the warmth drives the winter from one's bones?

I'm not naive enough to pretend that the cold is a friendly creature, kind and benevolent, however. Cold is, make no mistake about it, enough of an enemy to constantly test us. People who don't know how to cope with the cold get sick, even die -- or at the least suffer unduly.

Last year when the furnace went out during the season's only blizzard I was, fortunately, home alone. Kristin and Luke had stayed in the city the night before and were with her parents, which worked out for the best.

I had a fireplace designed for decoration rather than heat -- but it didn't matter because I knew how to cope with the cold.

Using charcoal to bank up my fireplace's heating capacity I built a fire each morning which lasted throughout the day, gradually heating the portion of the house I hadn't walled off. As for walling off the main portion of the house, lacking doors I had tacked spare blankets, thick ones, up to cover each doorway.

I transported ample helpings of wood inside, stacking it beside the fireplace. I shaved kindling in the barn prior to bringing wood inside the house.

Anything I cooked aside from tea was baked, enabling me to leave the oven door open post-baking -- after all, it's heat for which you've already paid!

Every morning the house was anywhere from 37 to 41 degrees, by evening the two front rooms were up to a pleasant 68 degrees. My fashion consisted of long underwear and sweatpants, tucked into double-layered socks at intervals, an undershirt and a sweatshirt. The bed was piled in layers until the coverings were four inches deep because the bedroom was not part of the heated household.


I thought of this last night because as we lay down to sleep my wife informed me about the warning for possibility of snow. True, last year Luke was in the city with her; this year she'll be in the city but Luke will be home with me.

Is disaster likely? Hardly... Still, when a small child is involved that what if always creeps into the rear brain, niggling and nudging so that the conscious self can form tentative plans of a just-in-case nature.

But I'm confident; if Luke is ever forced for any reason to endure harsh, cold conditions I'd prefer that he be in my company rather than anyone else.

After all, not everyone is meant to be a Viking; and some things are meant to pass from Father to Son.