There’s something about a cold winter morning that is quieter and more serene than a summer morning that will eventually unfold to be a thick, humid day covered in damp towels and smelly socks. Smelly bleu cheese in 90-degree heat. 

 For me, I can breathe better in winter. I never get headaches in the winter. I rarely get colds in the winter. Summer—-sorry. New Jersey summers no longer have a special place in my heart. I can’t think straight in the heat and my writing abilities deflate and die in the summer. I fake it for my famliy—and having a pool is a really nice thing, but overall, you can keep summer and its itchy, frizzy hair. My acting skills emerge for my girls, and I always put my big girl panties on for July and August. I really do.

Why does it have to be a contest between summer and winter? It doesn’t. But for fun, let’s explore the fresh clarity of winter and the humid pit-stains of summer. 

In winter, curly hair cooperates.

In winter, there is a feeling of refreshment when you step outside.

In winter, there is promise of new things to come.

In winter, cardinals appear more often.

In winter, we can wear fun boots and earmuffs.

In winter, we snuggle up near the fireplace. 

In winter, we hibernate and read. 

In winter, there is a togetherness inside. 

In winter, there is a stillness in the morning. 

Winter Olympics= figure skating and inline skating.

Stews. Soups. Hot coffee tastes better. Candy Canes. 

In summer, curly hair frizzes.

In summer, my sinuses are MAD from the barometric pressure of storms. 

In summer, there’s the sogginess of wet bathing suits. 

In summer, I can’t open my eyes outside without help.

Sunscreen. Smelly NYC. Smelly garbage cans. No relief when you roll down the window in traffic. Grilled everyting. 

I have no desire to write in July and August. None. June gets a pass because it’s still not completely offensive. 

Ok—my girls LOVE the pool, so summer gets ONE freebie. And Kev and I have a drink in our Adirondack chairs while we watch them enjoy themselves. See, I can be fair. 

Back to the writing thing. I think it is just a personal connection. Winter ignites my brain. Words to paper. So alive. I was born in a snowstorm on February 6 in 1977. Maybe there is something to it? 

Enjoy this winter with your loved ones. And think of me when your pits are stinky and you can’t breathe cleanly in the NJ humidity. Think of me when you’re sick of burgers on the grill and feel like watching A Charlie Brown Christmas in July. 

Love, Elaina

Winter Song: