Down the Tubes Productions

I annually curse my family for making it all the way from Italy on a disease ridden, treacherous boat ride only to stop in New England, where the weather is horrendous. You made it this far, you couldn’t have gone a little further south where it’s warm?

Yes, I’m being an insolent, bratty, privileged little beast.

I hate the winter. 

I hate every single solitary thing about it – let me count the ways: 

• the bitter wind
• the drop in temperature
• the ice that poses a fall risk every single time I step out of the house – made more dangerous post-knee replacement
• the amount of clothes I have to layer on my body whilst being a “woman of a certain age”, therefore causing my internal temperature to be completely dysregulated
• squeezing my feet into uncomfortable boots and having to change my shoes when I get to school
• the slippery hallways at school after the kids tromp through with their wet boots, posing an indoor fall risk – nowhere is safe
• my bouncy hair falls flat and static attacks, which may be winter’s biggest offense 

Shall I continue? 

It’s bad enough as an adult – but as a kid, it was not only a rite of passage but an expectation that core memories be made frolicking in the snow and engaging in such active, fun-filled activities such as sledding, ice skating, and skiing whilst screeching with unbridled exuberance!

I was a bookish child, who has grown into a bookish adult. As social and outgoing as I am, it may surprise many that my preference is to be alone with my books, my dog, and a cup of hot coffee no matter the season but especially during the cold winter months. In an effort to broaden my experiences beyond the pages of Lois Lowry’s Anastasia series or the many biographies I ferociously consumed, I was booted out the door to play in the snow. Ugh. 

Winter activities made an already despised season even worse due to the mandatory navigation of a myriad of landmines all in the name of fun. The level of vigilance I had to employ to protect my hearing aids plowed over any freewheeling, boundless and carefree enjoyment of outside winter play – because water, even in its frozen form, is the enemy. 

The primary level of protection was the pom-pom winter hat, shoved down over my ears tightly in an effort to keep me warm, but more importantly to provide a safe, dry haven for my hearing aids to not be splashed with any form of snow, ice, or water droplets. Albeit necessary, the complications arose due to the knit hat completely blocking the hearing aid microphones – thus emitting a high pitched, unrelenting screeching sound as they wailed in fury at being covered. (I have to laugh at the sheer irony that I can hear the high pitched screams of hearing aid feedback while not being able to hear birdsong in the trees).

I am now miserable knowing that I have to endure this noise, make repeated adjustments to the hat to desperately relieve some of the whistling, and – worst of all – have to go out in the snow. 

I never lasted out there long, looking for the first opportunity to wrestle my way out of the snowsuit, the boots, and the godforsaken hat to get back into the house, back to my books, and back to my childhood choice of hot beverage – a cup of hot cocoa with mini marshmallows. 

There was only one activity that would keep me out for hours in the snow – only one thing that would allow me to seek adventure, take uncalculated and ridiculous risks, and forget for a little while that I wasn’t like all of the other kids – and that activity was sledding.  Not just any sledding, but sledding with my brothers and cousins on the epic hill out back of my Uncle Tony’s house. My childhood memory serves up that the hill was equivalent to the steep slope of Mt. Washington, where in reality it was probably a modest backyard hill – but to us it was heaven. I loved every minute of flying down that hill in the red plastic sled with the yellow handles, with my cousin Sheri in front or behind me, picking up speed. I loved making “sled trains”, flying down the hill at breakneck speed while lying on our stomachs (minus the time the boys all let go and Sheri and I crashed into the thorn bushes). It was the best part of winter and I’ve never had as much fun before or since those years hurtling down that hill, feeling free, and risking broken bones and potential maimings. It was worth every single minute spent together, and I cherish each and every moment. 

But I still hate winter. 

If anyone is looking for me, I’ll be inside with Cher’s Memoir Part 1, Rocky on my lap, and a cup of coffee.