I’ve always hated winter. I’m not built to be cold tolerant no matter how many layers I bundle up in. My nose and fingers turn red from the cold ten degrees before we even hit freezing. Once winter settles in for good I’m better off hibernating, except that the rest of the farm doesn’t hibernate as well.

From the bay window in the kitchen I can see the sparkling virgin snow that fell overnight. It’s picturesque for the moment, until all of the critters get out and muck it up, and I can appreciate the view while I drink my morning coffee. The back of my mind harbors apprehension for the bitter cold that this icy powder signifies. 

I stretch and groan like the bitter old man that I am as I wash out my cup and splash water on my face. I head to the garage where I pull on my Carhartt coveralls, boots, gloves, hat, and an extra jacket on top of all that. The garage isn’t heated and already I can feel the cold seeping into my bones as I head for the exterior door, stomping my boots a bit to settle the double layer of socks in the most comfortable position. 

The sun is blinding as it refracts off of the pristine crystalized ice and I have to put a hand over my eyes for a moment after I open the door. There’s a baying and as my eyes adjust I can see my old beagle, Jackson, waddling through the snow with his tail wagging happily. In a moment, the other two farm dogs, Teddy and Roosevelt, are barking and tearing up the yard as they revel in the excitement of the new snow. I head down to the shed behind the house to get the dogs their breakfast while they circle around me with their eagerly wagging tails. 

A flash of brightness blinds me as the sun crests over the trees and throws the world into a new dazzling brilliance. I wince, but my eyes quickly adjust to the new sight. Even with tracks from the dogs crisscrossing the gentle slope of the yard, the scene is like something out of a vintage postcard. The only tree in the yard, an old oak with gnarled outstretched branches, frames the modest farmhouse and I could almost envision the “Happy Holidays” script written in the snow with scarlet calligraphy. 

I smile to myself and I’m surprised to realize that my face isn’t stiff from the cold. In fact, I don’t feel cold at all for the moment. I can’t feel the biting ache in my fingers or toes as I wiggle them. I laugh. The dogs sense my excitement and begin to play again, jumping, yipping, and growling happily. I run into the yard with them and giggle with child-like happiness I haven’t felt in decades as I throw myself into the fray and flop down in the snow. Sitting up I look for my path and find the snow still pristine and undisturbed.