Snow Runs Through My Veins

I love everything about winter. Bundling up in a cozy coat and braving the cold. Going for a run in the middle of a snow shower (the world just gets quiet). Scooping up snowballs and hurling them at unsuspecting friends. (I miss 80% of the time, so I still have these friends.) Winter just makes me happy. And I owe it all to Montana, where I spent the first 11 years of my life. I grew up playing in snowbanks taller than me. Every Halloween, I trick-or-treated in a foot of snow and when November came around, I spent my weekends on the slopes of Bridger Bowl. We dug tunnels in our backyard to create some pretty impressive igloos. And my sister and I would have slept in our frosty forts if my parents hadn’t been sticklers about sleeping inside the house at night. (We made up for it years later by overnighting at the IceHotel in the Arctic Circle.) And even though I moved from Montana after the 5^th grade, winter and I remained tight. Now I find myself in Chicago, experiencing my first winter in the Windy City. So far, it’s lived up to the hype. It’s cold…damn cold. And it’s wonderful. The wind truly does whip into a frenzy as it comes blowing off the lake. And when it snows, it sticks. Boots aren’t a fashion statement here. They help kick up the white stuff and create paths where sidewalks used to be. I happily do my part, trudging through the new snow while wandering around on a crisp winter day. And should my wandering lead me to a cozy tavern and a juicy burger, so be it (I wouldn’t exactly feel lost!). But is it my comfort food? No. What really brings me comfort is winter itself.