Into the Cold

It's a new year, and I have a lot of blogging to make up for since my last post. I need to be inspired to write something and now, 40,000 feet up in the air, with all this time on my hands - I guess it's that  time.

At perhaps the coldest time of the year, and since the year just began, I think that's an accurate statement, I'm flying to the east coast for work. I've got more outerwear than I've ever packed before with me and I must admit, I love how everyone is worried that I will turn into Frosty the Snowman or a big ball of ice. It's very flattering, and I do get a thrill making a point of how I love the heat. But, the truth of the matter is, I grew up in New England, and some of my best memories surround this time of year. Yes, there were some bad ones and I'll tackle those another time, but overall, the good, like everything in life, outweigh the bad.

When I was a chubby little child, made even chubbier by the snowsuit my mother encased me in, I used to love running outside and throwing myself in the snow. Making snow angels, attempting to make a decent snowman and catching snowflakes on my tongue, sledding down the hill of the reservoir  are just a few of the quintessential winter activities I used to love to do. But, more than that, it was coming home and in from the cold that I loved the most. My mom would have a hot bowl of cream of wheat, or if it were dinner time, her famous red soup (which was really just chicken soup with crushed tomatoes), but for a little kid - red soup would do just fine.

There were those winter tasks that I despised, though. Shoveling the snow in front of our house and even, for a measly $5, doing the same task outside our doctor's office. My dad would always make us shovel as soon as the snow began and keep at the task, "so there was less to shovel when it was over." It didn't make sense to me then, but looking back, if I hadn't started early, there would be have been fourteen inches of snow to dispose of all at once. Maybe that's why I do things a little at a time to avoid the avalanche.

 I loved sleeping in flannel sheets (something I still do, despite it never really getting THAT cold in Los Angeles), bundling  up on the couch with a blanket my mom crocheted and falling asleep listening to the heat clang its way up the furnace. All that was ever missing was the roaring fireplace.

When my grandparents lived downstairs, I would spend the afternoon there, running very quickly from our door to theirs because the enclosed porch had no heat. I would watch my grandmother make cookies or peel the shells off what seemed were a million shrimps. The house would be warm and cozy. And whether it was downstairs or up, there was so much feeling between those two floors that it could melt any amount of ice that crystallized on the windows.

And, yes, when I was 24, I'd had had enough of the below freezing temperatures and wanted a new chapter on the west coast, but winter, like Boston, is in my soul. It's in my blood - no matter how thin it has gotten. When I'm walking - very briskly to the office from my hotel, my hands protectively warm in the gloves  my dad gave  me and a hat to cover my freshly waxed ears (I live in LA, I get waxed), I will come in from the cold, take off that hat and gloves, remove the scarf from my mouth and relish in the warmth around me. Because, even though it will be work, it will be all those memories of those winters that will keep me warm even if I were to not wear the seven layers of clothes I will have on. I said, "if." I may be sentimental about my childhood winters, but I'm not stupid.