Entering the Second Winter

Here in Minnesota we are treated to a veritable banquet of winter; it comes, it stays, it has varying intensities. I wear a turtleneck and ski socks during much of that time, especially as I spend a lot of time outdoors walking our snow-loving dog Jesse and skiing.

But last week, after a dearth of snow and an abatement of the bitter cold, we found ourselves dumped on with a good 4-6 inches of white stuff. The real cold returned. It was an inevitable sign - - we were entering our second winter.

The First Winter starts around November, though it can hold off until December. Once it starts it is relentless, with the temperatures becoming colder and colder until they (usually) reach their nadir of well below zero sometime in late January. This year I think we had over 80 hours straight below zero. That is tough, as every venture outside demands preparation and determination. The alternative is to become quickly chilled or worse. So the First Winter is the arctic winter. Whiteout, howling winds, occasional exquisite Northern Lights, all comprise these months of extreme cold. At times there will be a day above freezing, when everyone runs around the nearest lake in shorts and a sweatshirt; but for the most part, it is simply frigid.

But then, usually after some sort of break indicating that a major shift is taking place, we switch to the Second Winter. This is more like an East Coast Winter. Winds are still prevalent, ice takes the place of endless snow, and grass at times peaks through the dense cover. This year, we lost most of the snow cover prior to the Second Winter -- in fact, we were left with grundgy snow on the sidewalks and bubbly sheets of ice on the lawns.

But now the Second Winter has made its home once more, and though the temperatures do not linger so long below freezing, this is the most torturous time of year. Something inside us cries for justice -- winter should end, and jonquils should peep out from under the juniper bushes. Warm bands of sun should greet us on our daily walks instead of bitter wind slicing the damp into our bones.