One morning, earlier this month, I woke up to the sight of termination dust. For you non-Alaskans, that is SNOW. On the mountains. The termination of summer. Today, I woke up to snow everywhere.

 

Alaska, I’m not ready for winter. I’ve barely said goodbye to summer and hello to autumn. Yet I feel winter creeping up on snowy feet.

 

There must be someone to blame for this early winter. COVID? Probably not the culprit. No, I’m blaming retail stores and the Hallmark channel, which now celebrate Christmas before Halloween. Evidently, nature decided to jump on the bandwagon of early Christmas.

 

Now, I confess that I love sitting in front of a warm crackling fire, gazing at the winter snow, blanketing the landscape.

 

Then I remember the years in Kamchatka where the temps often fell to 30 below, and you tripped over dog poop instead of stepping in it. And unfortunately, that also applied to that primitive version of a bathroom; the 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 knee-deep snow, thankful that someone has already broken the trail earlier that day. I’m dressed for the cold, wearing boots, wool stockings, an ankle-length skirt, a heavy sweater, and a full-length down coat.

 

I step into the glorified shed, desperately 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 hole’s location 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, a long skirt, and a coat. There’s only one alternative.

 

I hang my purse around my neck.

 

I flip the purse around, so it hangs down 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 as the purse dangles over the deep, dark depths lying beneath the hole in the floor.

 

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.

 

Aristotle said, “To appreciate the beauty of a snowflake, it is necessary to stand out in the cold.” Well, I’ve been up close and personal with snowflakes. And I’ve learned to appreciate the beauty of a snowflake while inside my warm house holding a steaming cup of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream while watching a Christmas movie in October.