We have an ongoing debate in our house about which of the four seasons is best. Brittany is loud and proud of her love for Winter, and it’s then that I remember that I’m a few years older and grouchier than her. Something happened to me about 5 years ago that made me hate winter. I’m not one to bandy that word about. Which word? Both “hate” and “winter”, which I hate. In the words of the Prince of Pop, I’m a lover, not a fighter. There are many ways to talk about love. I love tacos and I love my family. There’s only one way to use the word hate, and it’s when I ‘m talking about winter.
Lest you think I’m a grumpy old man about to start yelling at clouds and chasing your kids off my lawn with a hose, I should mention that there are certain things I do like about Winter, namely blizzards and corresponding snow days. What I don’t like is having to put on long underwear, boots, a hat, scarf (or “muffler”), and a big coat just to venture out to the mailbox. There’s nothing like putting my feet in some slides and walking around the neighborhood, smiling and waving at neighbors, loving life and absorbing delicious vitamin D. Neighbors? I won’t even see them again until late April. We all hide in our houses and cars, headed out under the darkness of a 10:30am sky to go 7 MPH down the freeway, our shaky finger just centimeters away from pressing the hazard light button. Meanwhile those retirees in Michigan’s lowest peninsula (Florida) laugh at our folly as yet again we scrape our windshields with a credit card, making Dave Ramsey smile with glee because we’re finally using his prescribed method of credit.
As I write this, beautiful West Michigan hovers at 82 balmy degrees. Outside my wide open garage door is a tree whose top leaves are making the shift from luscious green to warning orange and yellow, as if to say “get your Master Cards ready, fools.” It crosses my mind to cut the tree down and laugh, just as the tanned ones of Cocoa Beach will soon laugh at us.
Brandon (my neighbor) and I (his neighbor) shake our heads when, standing with bare feet on our driveways, we remind each other to brace ourselves because our toes will no longer keep themselves warm. Have you ever noticed your fingertips and toes more than you do in the middle of January?
I think about how Ash Wednesday services will invariably be cancelled because of a late season blizzard, the one that the Farmer’s Almanac wrote about but we forgot because, in an act of defiance, I ripped that page out to start a fire I didn’t even need.
So long S’mores and kite flying Fridays. Farewell, sunscreen and outdoor swimming pools. We’ll miss you, melted ice cream that we forgot in the hatchback of the grocery-grabber. Meanwhile, hello to exploded cases of Coke Zero.
Then again, exploded cola is where they probably got the idea for Slushees. And the way the world has to stop because of rather innocuous weather, compared to, say, a hurricane, is always a welcome surprise. Sleeping with the house at 68 degrees without having to pay through the nose every month is pretty great. And who doesn’t love Christmas? And that weird week between Christmas and New Year’s Day, when time off is essentially built in to our flow? Shoveling a sidewalk once in a while is less work than mowing the lawn every week. How am I supposed to do any yard work? I can’t paint the shutters now and for another 2 months. Like all outdoor projects we discover in flurries, it’ll have to wait until spring. These are uncontested and convenient truths that couldn’t exist in a different climate.
The variety isn’t all that bad, really. My friends who moved south stopped complaining about the snow and instead complain about the heat. They mention with shifty eyes the tarantulas that don’t get killed off like our mosquitoes and snakes that have no reason to hide, even for a Valentines bite of death. In fact, I can see how Winter has some benefits. It is gorgeous. It reminds us of the seasonal nature of our lives. It helps us remember to be present and enjoy what we’ve got now. We talk ourselves out of the blues by counting the days until Spring. There is hope, even in the dead of winter.
Even the coldest and most difficult days have a certain beauty that can only be seen if you’re looking at it from the right perspective. In this case, it’s through a window next to a roaring fireplace, hot chocolate in hand.
Okay, so there are some sorta good things about Winter, unique qualities and experiences that make life better. I’ll try to remember that you can’t fall backwards and make a grass angel. If you can see your breath any other time of year, it means something really bad is happening. Maybe you accidentally swallowed a firework. Maybe it’s the gum disease gingivitis. We frankly don’t want to know.
Here’s what I DO know: I’m going to enjoy today even more because I remember what’s coming. When we’re in the middle of it and I’m feeling kinda blah, I’ll latch on to my wife’s joy for winter and press on. Until then, I’m taking my sandals off and walking in the lawn. I’ll pretend I’m looking for weeds and even be thankful for them. The birds keep chirping and the sun won’t relent its light and heat. Soon it will seem that only light emanates from the center of our solar system.
While I’m in the front yard, I’ll probably glance up at the gutters and make a mental note to get up on the roof and clean ’em out before too long because, well, Winter’s coming. I accept it as fact and will make the most of it.
As for the peeling paint on the shutters, those can wait until October.
Or maybe April.
(R) Adam Davidson 
A Rebuttal From Mac
We have an ongoing debate in our house about which of the four seasons is the best. Zac and Britt wear their undying love for winter on their sleeves, parading their allegiance to hot cocoa and gentle white mornings. Meanwhile, dad sulks in the corner, wistfully refreshing the weather app in the hopes that somewhere up there, some paperwork had been mixed up, and summer was to be extended until February. Lexi and Carter are indifferent to this debate, since Lexi is content no matter the weather so long as she has food and some music, and Carter didn’t hear the question.
As for me, I’m somewhere in between. It’s not that I don’t care, I’ve definitely spent my fair share of time analyzing and pondering the aspects of weathers, intently weighing the pros and cons of each instead of doing my algebra homework. Over the course of a long and meaningless career of evaluating the seasons, I’ve come to this conclusion: winter is better than summer, at least in my eyes.
Don’t get me wrong, summer has its perks, but the delightful things that it delivers to the table are simply outweighed by the negatives. The primary antagonist of summer is the heat. Those dreaded days of laying around the living room floor, wearing as little as you can on your body, as you feel your skin start to adhere to the hardwood floors. A lot of dads – mine included – like to cockily remind us all that “It’s not the heat that gets ya, it’s the humidity.” To which I’d like to respond “It wasn’t my hand that landed that blow, it was Newton’s Third Law.” But of course, I’d never actually strike any old man, mine begrudgingly included. Cynicism aside, back to why I hate summer.
The brutal heat, unwelcomed enough as it is, tends to bring along a devious sidekick. Mosquitoes. Their favorite pastime is ruining bonfires and walks in the woods. I suppose in their defense it is the perfect time to strike, we’re so focused on not becoming a puddle on a sidewalk that our primary anti-bug defenses are working at half capacity, if at all. Of course, you could always wear a sweater or a hoodie to provide an extra layer of protection, and that’s when the heat sneaks up behind you, hits you over the head, and takes your wallet. For those of us with style, the heat is more of a hindrance than anything else. I’ve always found it’s much easier to warm up than to cool down. After all, you can layer as much as you like, but you can only take off so many clothes before you run into a few walls.
Winter is likely more favorable to me because of my introverted nature, as well. You see less of people, and everyone tends to roam a closer circle to home, in hopes of avoiding the cold, and driving on icy roads. This suits me fine of course, but in all fairness to my old man, he’s not like me. He likes to be around people, which is probably why he loves travelling to Chicago so much. There’s plenty of people there. Some would say too many. I enjoy my own company enough to get by, and winter encourages that.
There’s nothing quite like waking up on a cold and crisp winter morning, and hiding behind the thick comforter that shielded you throughout the night, until you muster enough courage to venture outside of your nest. Once you’re up – and chilly – the magnet in your bed automatically switches on, drawing you back in against your will. However, if you’re strong enough, you can fight the pull with layers. Hoodies, baggy pants, socks, all things that would cripple you were you to wear them during the summer. But in the midst of the winter, it’s all welcome. You groggily make your way to your kitchen and prepare some coffee/hot cocoa, whichever you prefer. Hell, drink some eggnog if your stomach is iron enough. While you drink, you can sit in the peaceful silence of the dawn, and admire the outside. At some point in the night, the universe decided that your lawn looked too bland, and added a soft white sheet of decor to add texture and contrast to your drab yard. If you’re lucky enough, you’ll wake up during a gentle snowstorm. Billions of flakes – not a single one alike – slowly gliding to rest anywhere they can. “No need to rush,” they say to one another. “This winter will last a while longer, we have as much time to land as we’d like.”
A perfect time to cocoon yourself in a thick and ugly blanket, ensnaring yourself on the couch or near a fire. But this entrapment was voluntary, and you brought a book, or a puzzle. The crackling of the logs in the fire bring sound to an otherwise silent snowfall, and you unknowingly let all of your stress and anxieties drift away, to eventually become entangled with the billowing smoke and escape through the chimney. You’re none the wiser to this alleviation, you’re too focused on finding the remote.
“Did you check between the cushions?”
“That was the first place I looked, dumbass.”
“Okay, well it didn’t grow legs and walk away”
“Amongus!”
“It’s alright guys, I found it.”
“Where was it?”
“In between the couch cushions.”