February in New England is cold. One winter many years ago, when I lived halfway up Vermont and had to get to the office early in the morning, the outdoor temperature gauge read thirty below zero. At first, I suspected the gauge was broken. Because sleet had iced up the lock, it took some time to get the car door open. (Throwing a mug of hot water on it worked.) But when I finally did get into my car, I found my emergency bottle of anti-freezing windshield wiper fluid was a solid block of blue ice. So it really was thirty below.
This winter probably won’t get that cold. In fact, it may not stay cold enough long enough to kill off the tick population. But during February, there will be stretches of days with highs in the teens and lows below zero. Some days it looks sunny enough to beckon you outside, only to drive you back indoors with a nasty wind. Or a foot of snow–which we got two nights ago.
It’s not only the cold that makes New England winters challenging. It’s also the darkness. Now that I’m retired and don’t have to drive in the dark to work anymore, I don’t mind the late sunrise. But sunset before 5 p.m.—that’s brutal.
And this winter, we can’t even cope via festive dinners with friends—or Inauguration parties, or Superbowl parties, or impromptu parties to celebrate nothing much at all. I like my daily life, my house, my companion, but I’m a restless type. After the holidays, my mood slid downhill. So today I’m focusing on the winter pleasures we have at our disposal.
Winter walks
Once the leaves are down, the architecture of the trees is revealed, and the sunlight pours through. Light reflecting off the snow makes days bright, and twilight creates luminous, pearlescent winter colors.
The cold air is fresh, and it makes me walk fast to warm up. If I’m with a friend, we talk. If I’m by myself, I gawk. (I look around and notice nature, houses, dogs.) Both ways are good.
Then there’s coming back into the house after a good walk. Darkness is falling outside, but inside there’s warmth, a comfy chair, a cup of tea, and a cookie–or perhaps that most delicious of childhood treats: cinnamon toast.
Cooking or baking
The smell of buttery cinnamon toast makes the house feel utterly cozy to me. So do the smells of onions sauteing or cauliflower soup simmering on the stove. When it’s my turn, I will do the work of producing those delicious smells. But since I’m only a moderately competent cook, I especially like it when my husband is the one who’s cooking. There’s little that makes a person as cheerful as cracking open the door to the study and finding delectable odors wafting up the staircase. It’s a less common experience for women, so it’s even more satisfying. When I hear mellow jazz downstairs—plus the occasional curse as my husband spatters himself with hot grease—I rejoice to have arrived in what a character from an early Barbara Kingsolver novel called The Heaven of Men Who Cook.
On other evenings, even I enjoy chopping and zesting and sauteing. The resulting food is rarely gourmet, but it’s always reasonably tasty. And sometimes I even wind up dancing around the kitchen.
Curling up with a good book
Properly done, this can approximate hibernating. It’s a low-tech, low-cost pleasure, requiring only a book that you genuinely enjoy plus warm sunlight or lamplight. It feels even more like burrowing if you snuggle into an old armchair and drape a soft throw over your legs or around yours shoulders. A hot drink is lovely. So is a crackling fire, if you’ve got one. And a dog or cat or quiet friend can make it delightfully companionable.
If the book is good enough, and long enough—or if the snow is falling—whole mornings or afternoons can pass this way.
If you want to kick it up another notch, try reading something upbeat while immersed in a bathtub full of hot water. It’s excellent for post-exercise muscles, a bit tough on the skin, fabulous for the mood.
Zoom chats with friends or family
The standard cocktails-and-schmooze-fest is always fun, but there are variations, too. Some grandparents play chess with their grandkids. Some families do talent shows. Our extended family is playing Trivial Pursuit once a month. (Since some of the questions are ridiculously narrow, we’ve included the possibility of one pass per turn.)
Last but not least, my new friend Netflix (and PBS Passport, and Amazon Prime, and…)
I have never watched so much television. Just about every other evening, we sit down for an episode of some series or other. Also I’ve also never talked so much about which movies or series are worth watching. When I go for my (socially distanced, masked, outdoor) walks with friends, we agree that nothing much is happening in our lives, so we resort to recommending—or trashing—whatever shows are available. Everyone has Netflix, but which other channels are worth paying for? Prime? HBO? Disney Plus? Starz? Hulu? None of the above?
So these are our winter pleasures here in the North, and they’re good. Still, if it weren’t for Covid, I’d be headed someplace warm for the next few weeks….
You’ve captured the upsides of this difficult time beautifully, my dear. Despite the isolation, an enhanced feeling of connectedness has emerged. I enjoy cooking, but enjoy it even more when we do it together, chatting away as we ponder the Blue Apron recipes. I enjoy curling up with a good book, but I enjoy even more curling up with a warm, Olympic-class curler-upper, and reading aloud. This year has made me aware of how much I appreciate and delight in our friends and family, relishing our Zoom cocktail hours, views of grandchildren, and news check-ins. Even contacts with people we know less well, to discuss movies, books, or current events, have become treasures. I hadn’t realized how truly wonderful and wonderfully eccentric all these people are — how dear and how essential.
Finally, though amidst so much suffering and death I only say this in a whisper, I must admit that as a natural hermit there are moments when I actually enjoy the quiet and simplicity of this time. A year or two from now, perhaps, we will hear people, including myself, saying: “Wow, you know the pandemic was terrible, but it wasn’t all bad.”
What a poignant account of winter in a pandemic. Barney Bentall, a Canadian singer/songwriter, has a line in his song “The Ballad of Old Tom Jones” – The mercury read minus 50 degrees
He thought for sure the damn thing had finally broken Until he walked outside. The cold and snow offers up such beauty and the contrast of the warmth in our homes, which you so aptly depict in your post.
I thought I had read all of Barbara Kingsolver’s books (The Lacuna is my very favorite), but I’ve never heard of The Heaven of Men Who Cook. I’ll have to hunt that down.
We don’t have snow to deal with where I live, but the groundhog days we keep living over and over are getting tiring. Fortunately, we can get out of the house and into the yard and sunshine. I’m so happy to have technology to keep me engaged with others. My husband is wonderful but it’s nice to talk to others once in a while.