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The temperature gauge at the edge of our flower garden claimed a balmy 50 F. From within our home, the 10 mph breeze sounded much colder.
The snow that has been hiding the grass for the past nearly two weeks is about gone. The TV weatherman said snow had been covering the ground for a record number of days. He neglected to point out that the snow piled up to the six-inch mark and stopped abruptly, and the bottom fell out of the thermometer.
Snow does not melt quickly when the mercury is below the 20 degree mark, though if today’s wind had occurred last week, more snow would have gone away earlier. But sublimation is another topic.
When I was a youngster, going out to play clad only in a T-shirt when the temp was at or above zero was not at all painful, unless Mom thought snow needed to be shoveled from in front of the garage. Then, of course, the slightest breeze mandated suiting up with more bulk than the kid in “A Christmas Story.”
Mostly, donning all those layers was a delaying tactic performed in hopes the snow would melt before I could get dressed, saving me the need to shovel it. It never worked, but hope springs eternal.
Years later, the U.S. Navy decided I should visit Adak, Alaska for a couple of years. By that time, two youngsters had joined the Messeder clan to demonstrate youthful hardiness in temperatures that often sent kids in the Lower-48 scurrying for deep piles of blankets. The mean (pun intended) temperature was about 60 F, so our offspring’s blood thinned out really well.
At the end of our tour, it was time for our son to start school, which shortly after resulted in his teacher calling for help. “Your son will not put a coat on when he goes out for recess,” the young woman, who only recently had left the warmth of her parental hearth, complained.
He just lived two and-a-half years where what you are experiencing was not cold, I explained.
“And when I finally get him to put it on, he won’t take it off when he comes back inside,” she added.
Sheesh, make up your mind, Teach. This is a kid who’d run barefoot in the snow — not a long hike, mind you, but enough that kids from warmer climates thought was crazy.
Fast forward another couple decades and I was in Miami, Florida one January. My spouse, whose family we were visiting, was a great believer that when visiting Florida, one should look like a Floridian. A flowerdy shirt and sandals was decreed to be uniform of the day.
As we prepared to hit the roads and trails in search of Milady’s childhood haunts, I went to her sister to ask whether my disguise made me look sufficiently like a tourist.
“You definitely look like a tourist,” the sibling responded, laughing only barely controllably as she considered the frigid, to her, January temperatures.
We sallied forth to find ourselves among young Miamians clad in fur-lined parkas and mukluk boots. Citrus farmers were spraying their crops with cold water to keep them from freezing. There I am in Tevas and a short-sleeved cotton shirt, learning why freezing water keeps oranges from turning to ice cubes.
But tough as I pretend, and sometimes even approach, it was nice this afternoon to wander with the dog in 50-degree, though slightly breezy, air.
Text and Images ©2025 John Messeder. John is an award-winning environmental storyteller, nemophilist and social anthropologist living in Gettysburg, PA. He may be contacted at john@johnmesseder.com
