As a child and a young person, weather was fascinating to me and I enjoyed being out in it, regardless of temperature, force, or destruction.
I have distinct memories of scampering around the woodlands of our farm in the “dead of winter”, as they say. I don’t recall being particularly bothered by the temperature, the wind, or the snow. Snow fascinated me … its consistency, its pliability, its taste … I could not get enough of the white stuff.
I remember being terribly disappointed when I was forced by time or parental directive to go back inside, even when my clothes were wet from sloshing through some half-frozen stream or “skating” on one of our stock ponds.
Rain was something to absorb, and not something to avoid. Standing on a small hill as a roaring thunderstorm filled the sky was a trip. Soaked clothing did not matter, slippery slopes were a challenge, and mud was simply a heaven-sent joy to feel and handle.
Now I bundle up, zip up, and stay in … I’m much more comfortable, but something is wrong.
I sort of miss those days …
Staying warm and dry, but letting it bug me in the Heartland ….