I have a love/hate relationship with winter.

Winter has arrived in Alaska. Snow covers the ground like a soft white quilt, lacy frost decorates the tree branches, and it is time to break out the sleds, skis, and hot cocoa. I love this picture-perfect description of winter.

In reality, winter is a beautiful yet cruel season. The beauty of each individual snowflake is amazing, but too many snowflakes can make your life miserable.

You must have respect for winter. Winter lulls your senses with her beauty, and then she frostbites your fingers.

Of course, I’ve spent most of my life living in the extremely cold climates of Alaska and Russia. It’s a little different from living in Texas, where you pack up the kids to go skiing in Colorado so you can experience a few days of snow.

Try living in it six to eight months of the year.

The beauty of winter fades around the second or third week month.

For me, I rate winter according to the number of falls I experience. 0-1 falls is an excellent winter. It’s downhill from there.

In the winter, I develop a severe case of the babushka shuffle. (Babushka is the word for grandmother in Russian.) No long, confident strides. Short, shuffling steps, shoulders hunched as my eyes nervously scan the ground looking for icy spots.

And what in the world causes the overwhelming urge to pee the moment you step out in the cold air??? You put on multiple layers, hats, and boots, and step outside only to make a quick about-face and make a beeline for the bathroom. Two words: cold diuresis. It’s a thing. Google it.

Since I’ve already gone down the rabbit hole, here’s my best winter tale involving an outhouse.

Imagine the temperature hovering around twenty-below zero. In Russia.

I’m at church when nature calls. Of course, there is no indoor plumbing, only an outhouse.

I trudge through the snow, thankful that someone has already broken trail earlier that day. I’m dressed for the cold, wearing boots, wool stockings, an ankle length skirt, heavy sweater, and a full-length down coat.

I step into the glorified shed, hoping it is a modern outhouse with a raised seat. But no, it’s a hole in the floor. A splintery wooden version of a porcelain squatty potty. To make matters worse, the location of the hole is so far from the walls; you can’t even reach out to steady yourself if your world suddenly leans.

But, I can’t wait (remember cold diuresis), so I have to make the best of the situation.

Suddenly I realize I’ve carried my purse to the outhouse. My eyes dart around the tiny room. No hooks or shelves for my purse. I examine the floor, but let’s just say even though what is on the floor is frozen, I still don’t want to set my purse on it.

I can’t hold the purse with one hand, as I have to deal with wool stockings, long skirt, and coat. There’s only one alternative.

I hang my purse around my neck.

I flip the purse around to my back, but during my struggles with multiple layers, it slides around my neck to hang in front of me. Pulling me dangerously off-balance.

A horrifying picture flashes through my mind, of the entire congregation, coming out to rescue me from the depths of a frozen hell. With my stockings and undies down around my ankles.

That terrifying picture infuses strength to my quivering leg muscles, and I’m able to stay upright.

Barely.

 

Yes, I have a love/hate relationship with winter.

But I do love a good cup of hot cocoa.