Only 34 days 'til spring!

I'd rather be here.

I have nothing against winter. Actually, it was always my favorite season -- as a child. I loved playing outside in the snow until my mittens were wet and my fingers were numb. I loved walking home from Girl Scouts and kicking up snowy clouds that glittered under the milky glow of the street lamps. (It was a lot safer back in 1959.) I loved ice skating with my brother on the bumpy, frozen surface of a local pond; huddling around a trash can fire to warm up; desperately waiting for our father to rescue us with the car; then entering the door with skates slung over our shoulders and cheeks that any clown would envy -- as proud as a farmer who had just plowed the back forty. The door of the house entered directly into the kitchen, and we were at once engulfed in the warmth and aroma that was home. Mom always had supper cooking -- usually a casserole or some other one-dish meal whose primary ingredients were hamburger and pasta. Our toes were so cold they would ache and itch and itch and ache and drive us mad until they regained their normal temperature. (Later, as a mother, I always tried to have something warm ready for my children when they came in from a hard day's work out in the snow.) I never could understand why my parents -- especially my father -- hated winter and wanted to move south. My mother's favorite season was always autumn, which I could not understand. "Everything is dying. . . It's just so depressing." She couldn't make me understand, and I didn't really try because I didn't want to understand.

But time changes things, like seasonal preferences and perspectives about what is fun and what is. . . well, just plain miserable. And that is because time changes us. I no longer have the health, energy, stamina, or body of a ten-year-old. I wish I could play in the snow, build snowmen, go ice skating, and take long walks on wintery nights. Heck, I wish I could walk from my door to the car without being afraid of slipping on the ice and breaking something. I remember how my mother-in-law was so terrified of falling, and I tried to be patient and understanding in a condescending sort of way. Tedde, I feel your fear.

So here I am, 58 years old, afraid of winter and in love with autumn. Go figure.

At any rate, it's not poor Winter's fault, and I have nothing against those who genuinely love the season. I do not try to dissuade them or convert them to Autumnism. It's just not my cup of cocoa anymore.

Last July, I did a rather impulsive thing. I bought a bicycle. One Saturday morning, standing at the kitchen sink, I announced to my husband, "I'm gonna go buy a bike. Wanna come with me?" I thought he might want to supervise my spending, so he came along. So we drove to the bicycle shop and checked out a few that were unsatisfactory for my short legs and large frame. As we were ready to leave, I reluctantly tried one more. It was a rather old-fashioned, simple design with only three speeds and painted a delightful bubble-gum pink. Once I rode it around the parking lot, I was in love. I must have known this bike in the pre-earth life.

Conveniently, the bike shop was located at the head of a towpath trail -- an old canal trail that has been converted to a biking/hiking trail. Over the next few months I grew to love that trail -- for its beauty, its solitude, and for the invigorating effect it had on me, both physically and mentally. I rode my pink bike until the cold weather prohibited me. Now it sits on my basement floor with last fall's mud still on the tires, waiting for a chance to ride the trails again. And I'm counting the days until Betsy and I can go exploring again.