It’s early morning, and I’m wondering if I can get away with wearing a flannel shirt to work. Thankfully, my job is behind the scenes at a public library, so I don’t have to adhere to a very strict dress code, but still…a plaid flannel shirt feels a little casual. On the other hand, I’m freezing. Decision made. Flannel wins.
Winter in the Midwest, where I’ve lived most of my life, is an exercise in survival and fortitude. The familiar “winter burrow,” when my neck and shoulders begin to melt into the rest of my body in order to conserve heat, begins in November. That’s when cold winds strip the trees of the remaining leaves and the world seems to be all shades of browns and grays. In December, there is some relief because of all the festive holiday lights and decorations. January settles into a cold, desolate winterscape once again. The lights and tinsel and baubles have been packed away, but a fresh layer of snow can brighten things up.
Winter in Illinois is hard on us. Skin gets dry and itchy, hair becomes brittle, and going outside less takes a toll on our mental health. Dog walks are cut short when the cold wind or slippery ice make even a jaunt around the block nearly unbearable. Salt is everywhere: in and on our cars, tracked into our homes via the bottom of our shoes. Rogue tubes of Chapstick are placed haphazardly in coat pockets and my desk drawer.
I try to lean into creating cozy vibes. I bake bread, drink hot mugs of tea, light candles, and strategically leave fuzzy blankets around my living room. But by February, I am ready to scream. I give up. I literally cannot survive for one more freezing cold day. My feet are numb. I’ve been wearing the same gray cardigan for months at this point. The tip of my nose is cold all the time. My fingertips itch. I would give anything to teleport to a warmer place, if only to remind myself what it feels like for five minutes.
In all this suffering, the reality haunts me: years ago, our family lived in Colorado. Many think of snow-topped mountains when they think of Colorado, but the climate is much more temperate than here. Famously, the state gets an average of 300 days of sunshine a year, which is about double of what poor Illinois gets.
Yet, while in Colorado, I didn’t appreciate it. I didn’t realize how good I had it in that sun-drenched state. My refrain to native Coloradans was, “Oh, I just love living somewhere with four distinct seasons. I don’t mind the long gloomy days, because it makes me appreciate when the weather warms up.”
I actually said those words! Years later, we moved right back to Illinois. Maybe we are gluttons for punishment. Maybe Midwesterners are built differently. All I know is we came right back to this place, having loudly and foolishly declared my love for seasons.
Each year, I begin an abusive relationship with Illinois weather all over again. Spring is glorious, summer is glorious, fall — my favorite of all seasons! — is the most glorious. Then comes winter, which can last anywhere from 3-6 months and will obliterate any warm feelings completely from my memory.
But just as I’m about to scream into the tundra and surrender to the brutal winter gods, I’ll hear the faraway drip, drip of melting icicles. Patches of grass will start to peek through the snowcover. The thermometer will rise enough that I’ll take off my gray sweater, like a serpent shedding worn-out skin.
First will be the snowdrops. Then purple and pink crocuses popping up through the ground. Then, the daffodils, looking dazzling in their yellow garb that reminds me of the warm Colorado sun.
Just like a mother who immediately forgets a difficult childbirth as soon as her perfect newborn is placed in her arms, I will forget all about winter. The salty boots and heavy coats with Chapstick in the pocket will be put away, and a carwash will restore the car to its gleaming pre-winter condition. I will once again declare my love for all four seasons, and be grateful for the transition each season brings. On a hot day in July, you might even hear me say, “I wish I could roll in some snow right now!” But I won’t really mean that. I’m a Midwesterner, slightly delusional and a glutton for punishment. For everything there is a season. ‘Round and around we go.
