I was born during a snowstorm on Dec. 2, 2003. The storm was so bad that my grandpa had to rescue my parents and me from the hospital in his pickup truck. The radio was out, and my parents were exhausted from labor. The only sounds were the crunch of fresh snow under the tires and the frigid wind rapping against the truck.
Nobody spoke. My parents slept as my grandpa inched us along deserted streets. I stared outside into the beautiful white abyss that welcomed me into the world.
It is too easy to see winter as something terrible. Everything is cold, everything is dead and everyone is depressed, but understanding winter’s grace means recognizing the forces that make the season worth it: its contradictions.
Every facet of winter’s identity is a contradiction. The frigid outside and the thermal inside fight for dominance; dozens of feet of snow compete with our need to be outside – to have fun; and the darkest, coldest nights battle with the warmth of our family and friends.
Winter is the only season where our hearts are the warmest things out there. During our darkest months, we celebrate our brightest holidays and spend time with the people we care about.
When winter passes, I do not remember how cold it was in February or how dry my skin got, but I do remember the holidays I celebrated – my birthday, Hannukah, Christmas, New Years and Valentine’s Day – and the warmth that emerges during the coldest time of the year.
Every Christmas, my dad, my grandparents and I visit my uncle, aunt and cousins at their home in Cochecton, New York – a town so unknown that spell check thinks it is a typo.
Traveling four hours north and climbing 1,000 feet in altitude brings out the best and worst of winter. Some years the drive is quiet and fast, and other years, it is frigid and slow.
A few years ago, on our way back down late on Christmas Day, my dad and I were stranded on the side of the highway because of a flat tire. I remember taking off my headphones when we went over the rumble strip at the edge of the lane and looking at the alert on his dashboard, “flat tire.” That is truly the last thing you want to see on a holiday.
But Dad is a handyman, so of course, he jacked the car off the ground, took the flat tire off the car and put the spare in its place – and I held the flashlight.
I can’t remember much about the specifics, but I do remember how cold it was.
I remember shivering each time the wind picked up. I remember feeling my lips chap. I remember wishing I stayed home for Hannukah with my mom. But what I remember most is our one pair of gloves. I remember how he let me wear them even though he was on his knees, touching freezing metal on the side of a highway, changing the tire.
To me, that story has nothing to do with a flat tire, a flashlight or a wind chill. No, that story is about my dad’s choice to give me those gloves amidst a cold night where he had every right to take them for himself.
I love winter. I think it brings out the best in people. I think when snow covers the ground in thick sheets, we gain more from one another than on any sunny day.
I think that, when push comes to shove, we are all willing to give our gloves to the people we care about despite how cold we feel, but we only get the opportunity to love so uniquely in winter.