Winter's abuse has been missed

Yesterday, I got popped in the nose as I was leaving work.

Bam.

The impact was fierce, it was strong and I spent the rest of the day dabbing at my bright red schnoz with a Kleenex.

And believe it or not, it felt kind of good.

That's because the one guilty of inflicting this particular nose drubbing was none other than Jack Frost.

Winter, it seems, has finally arrived. On Tuesday night, the temperature dropped below 10 degrees.

This cold isn't the type that makes you idly say "brrrr" as you saunter to your car. It's not even the type I felt on New Year's Day when I joined some wild men for a dip in the Castor River.

No, this is the type of cold that smacks at the cheeks and sends shock waves through the body. It's a cold that lodges somewhere in the cartilage and can be shooed away with only hefty amounts of hot cocoa or coffee.

In short, this cold packs a punch.

But even as it left me with a raw nose, there was something comforting about the cold snap. Because to this point, the winter of 2006/2007 has sure acted like a lamb.

December was 5 degrees warmer than average in Cape Girardeau, according to the National Weather Service. I went out to pick up my newspaper in bare feet and shorts on Christmas Day and barely felt a chill.

It's been similar across the country. Normally glacial playoff football games in places like New England and Chicago have looked pleasant enough on TV.

People like me are asking, "What gives?" Are the winters of thermal underwear and clothing layered thick like onion skins gone for good?

I should say that I'm an unlikely person to ask these questions. Throughout my life I've been my family's loudest complainer during winter months. As a child, I felt strongly that winter was no fun, and I counted down the days until I could get back outside and play baseball. Most mornings I refused to get out of bed and threatened to catch the next plane to Florida. Even my mom called me a wuss.

But seeing winter defanged has been dispiriting.

It's like watching a heavyweight champ way past his prime. Winter doesn't knock me down the way it used to. And much to my surprise, I miss that abusive son of a gun.

It reminds me of something George Orwell, my literary idol, wrote in his 1946 essay, "Bad Climates are Best":

"The time was when I used to say that what the English climate needed was a minor operation, comparable to the removal of tonsils in a human being. Just cut out January and February, and we should have nothing to complain about."

But Orwell says he's had a change of heart. He writes that the cold, wet months each have an individual flavor. That the months of frost give English fruits and vegetables superior personality than can be found in tropical regions.

But ultimately, the affection Orwell felt for his cold, varying climate defies explanation.

"There is a time to sit in the garden in a deck chair, and there is a time to have chilblains and a dripping nose. Perhaps five days out of seven our climate gives us cause to curse it, but there are also days, especially in spring and autumn, when even the streets of London take on a beauty that is not to be found in sunnier lands."

I think that's how I feel. I certainly won't give up my right to grump and grouse my way through cold weather, but I'd ask that winter makes me suffer a little bit. That suffering makes the first day of spring that much sweeter.

TJ Greaney is a staff reporter for the Southeast Missourian.