Most people I associate with know I hate winter. I scowl at snow; I make disparaging comments about low temperatures. I complain about my stiff fingers and toes, about how I have to wear two pairs of socks, and about how long underwear is glued to my body straight from November to April. I am a warm weather creature. I am happiest at 85 degrees, when the same t-shirt and skirt combination that kept me cool during the day is enough to keep me warm at night. Hell, I don’t even mind the sweating. In summer, sweat is acceptable and expected. In the winter, when I bundle up warm, I often end up sweating in my armpits and freezing in my feet. What kind of sense does that make?
At the same time, however, I did grow up in Northern New Hampshire. I’m not saying this to imply that I should be used to the cold; I’ve heard that line a number of times, and I’m fairly well sick of it. But I do love being outside, and I have weathered many winters. There is something about them hardwired in me. So last night I went out walking in Philadelphia on a night when most people wouldn’t, when the temperature hovered around nine degrees and I was bound up in layers of down and wool, cotton and polypropylene. And when I was walking, the wind that blew through this city felt like a real New Hampshire wind.
The New Hampshire wind in winter is hollow. It’s isolating. It rides over the snow and through the spindles of trees. It makes things creek. It rumbles a dull roar in the background that some people, unfamiliar with it, mistake for a river being nearby. Standing in the woods listening to that wind is one of the greatest feelings of solitude I know. I feel like the only thing alive. It’s post-apocalyptic. It’s scary.
But when I heard it last night, when I heard it in the city, it gave me a great, welling feeling of being home.