Winter and hot flashes can freeze a man

Winter is a time of testing in North Carolina. The skies seem to stay dark-- like God redecorated and ordered a gun metal gray theme. We bundle up and listen to the wind outside shrill against the eaves and hope there is enough salt pork and flour to see us through to the spring.

Lucky me, I married Louise-- Warrior Queen of the North. My wife has recently become as hot natured as a boiling cauldron. Icicles hang from the kitchen cabinets, the dog is frozen in place with one paw pointed up towards the thermostat and she says, “Is it just me or is it hot in here?” She steps over a penguin to lower the temperature---again. Outside it’s so cold squirrels are throwing themselves on electric fences.

I do not argue with the Queen. I go outside in 21 degree weather and walk around a bit without a coat and when I return back inside I feel warmer. There is cold and there is less cold. Sometimes you just need perspective.

Luckily I grew up on a farm in eastern North Carolina where you accepted winter the way you accept your looks---with resignation. Nothing you can do about it, really.

There was no TV weather forecasting for people on the farm, just a sudden sense of doom and old people saying their bones ached while we inventoried the jars of canned beans, corn and okra. As far as meat they said that God would provide. A family of 10 would be reduced to a group of 8 by spring and everyone would appear well fed--- there were never legal inquiries.

Winter on our hog farm was intense and gave you a shot of determination. Can you survive? Yes, if you really want to.

So with your jaw set you trudge outside to do chores at 6:00 in the morning while the air still has the sharp bite of the cold night and the sun has yet to rise and give you hope. My job was to take a hammer to the water troughs and break what had frozen over night so the hogs could drink. The big swine would stand in the unheated shelters looking at me. I remember one very gentlemanly Birkshire boar hog, his eyes staring at me with icicles hanging from his snout. His eyes seem to say “Kill me now. Please”. I swung the hammer and hit the trough of ice instead and you could just see the disappointment on his face.

My father thrived on adversity and winter was his special challenge. If he could not see your breath while you worked outside then he called the whole thing off until the temperature dropped a bit more. He would put on long johns, two pairs of pants, a heavy flannel shirt, winter coat, gloves, a hat and then go outside to supervise my work. He would stand bundled up and watch me clean pens, repair broken gates and slats with my hands numb from the cold and say “Winters just don’t get cold like they used to”.

Days of old fashion farming, cows with names like Clarabell and beloved old mule teams are a thing of the past. So, like our parents who reminded us that they walked ten miles to school in the snow and 20 miles back, I had to tell this story.

I’m sitting here freezing; trying to write this column while my wife wonders if we should take the quilts off the bed. Menopause is a mystery I intend to ask God about first thing when I see Him. But right now, I’m thinking of crawling in our freezer to keep warm.