We used to have a cabin up in Vermont. In the winter, on the weekends, we would make the two hour drive, the end of the journey marked by snow covered dirt roads. When we arrrived, my brothers, my father and I would all pee into the snow drifts alongside the cabin by the brook (it felt good to stretch after a two-hour drive and who doesn't like peeing in the snow?), and my mom would light the pilot on the hot water heater in the basement.
Next, we would light two fires, one in the woodstove in the far corner of the house by the huge window looking out into the yard, and one in the fireplace.
I used to love sitting on the hearth once the fire had a chance to warm the masonry. There's nothing better in the world than cold hands and feet and a warm ass. Eventually, the well-insulated cabin would heat up--sometimes a little too much; we would need to crack the windows--and I would move from the hearth to the couch with a flushed face and red nose, and the weekend would begin.
The cold makes me think of Vermont, but it also brings all of my other senses to life (except for smell because my sense of smell has been depreciated since birth) because it was in the cold that I experienced some of the most sensory-rich occurrences in my life: My dad pushing me down the hill on an old sled when I was a kid, with snow floating softly to earth. Shoveling the driveway as a senior in high school, so sure I wouldn't slip, then having my feet fly out of from under me and hitting my tailbone so hard I couldn't breathe (that made me appreciate the hidden value of black ice). Driving my 1997 Buick Skylark like a snowmobile in college. Feeling claustrophobic a few years ago as the National Guard was called in to remove snow from Boston sidewalks (the last snow farm didn't melt until July).
All of these are things which have stayed with me over the years and will continue to do so for years to come.
I love the cold, because it makes things warm again.
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