Sarah Nigbor

Well, well, well, it looks like winter has finally arrived! For this winter season, I am considering my official winter start date to be Jan. 12, 2024. That is when it actually snowed more than 1 inch and the temperatures began to plummet. Out came the mittens, fuzzy socks, electric blankets and boots.

I prefer winter because I hate humidity, I hate being hot, and I can warm myself up better than I can cool myself down. Sitting next to a toasty fire with a mug of strong coffee in my hands while watching snow whirling past the window is enjoyable to me. And before someone comments that I must not have to shovel, that’s not true. I do my fair share and I don’t mind it one bit. I also have to go out in the cold to feed animals and I drive all over the place in it. Give me snow and a shovel any day over pulling interminable weeds from the garden on a sweltering summer day.

I remember growing up, it seemed to be my grandparents’ mission in life to make sure I never got cold. Picture Ralphie’s little brother in “A Christmas Story,” but add curly blonde hair and glasses and that was me. I would humor them by putting on layers of clothes and coats to the point that I could barely move, but as soon as I was out of their sight, I started shedding them like a snake. I was always hot back then, though I did have enough sense to wear a coat when it was cold out. I was always the last person to put away the flip flops (when snow started to fly) and the last to surrender the shorts.

When my friend and I painted my grandparents’ kitchen, it was late spring, but the furnace was going full blast. I realize older people get chilled more easily, but I will never forget that painting party. I thought I was going to die of heat stroke. I dared to crack the bathroom window open and gulp cool air like water in the desert, but my grandmother had radar and immediately called from her chair, “Did someone open a window?” “No!” I yelled as I gently shut it. My clothes stuck to me with sweat and I gazed outside longingly. It was a long day.

Ever since I had my daughter, I don’t know what happened to me, but I am a freeze baby. I still prefer the cold over the heat, but now I love big cozy sweaters and bundling up in mittens and hats. She, on the other hand, abhors wearing a coat. If you see her around town without a coat, please don’t think I’m a bad mother. I try my hardest to get her to wear one, but it’s like pulling teeth. My persistence finally prevailed this morning when the thermometer on the way to school read -10 degrees. But of course, when I picked her up from school, she was carrying the dang thing instead of wearing it. Grrrr. Or should I say, brrrrr? It’s not like I’m trying to shove her into an unflattering snowsuit. Just wear the dang coat.

Her excuse is that it doesn’t fit in her locker. Well, we all had to go through the fun of shoving our winter coats into our lockers, so she can join the club. It’s part of living in Wisconsin.

I go through the same thing with my stepsons. They shiver and whine and complain that it’s cold out in the winter, but oh look, they are not wearing a coat. When we went to River Dazzle in River Falls, two of them wore just sweatshirts and shook like leaves throughout the light parade. How is that fun? Why subject themselves to such torture? Can someone please explain to me why wearing a coat is so awful when you are a teen? Apparently I am just hopelessly old (according to my daughter, 43 is ready for the nursing home) and old-fashioned.