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Cold Weather Sports

IT’S COLD OUTSIDE.

I know it’s cold outside because I happen to be visiting my folks in Colorado and, as I look out the window, I can see snow on the ground. Even back home in Texas, I hear they’ve had an unexpected cold spell and that the temperature’s been down to twenty degrees.

When it gets chilly like this, it’s only natural to find ourselves thinking about cold weather sports.

Such as applying moisterizer.

If you ask me, the Olympics should recognize moisturizer application as a winter sport and allow women to compete internationally. I just can’t decide whether the competition should be based on speed or results. Should the gold go to the woman who can apply the most lotion in the least amount of time or to the woman who goes home baby-bottom-soft after beginning the week most resembling a Gila monster?

Other cold weather sports? Scraping ice off a frozen windshield is always a riveting event. So is hunting for a preschooler’s missing mitten. And speaking of lost mittens, I’m waiting for a forward-thinking company to come up with telephone-activated locating devices that can be attached to mittens, blankies, even pacifiers. That way, when Junior is screaming at the top of his lungs for the saliva-stained blankie that has gone suddenly AWOL, you could walk to the phone, dial a number, and listen around the house for the responding beep. I’d buy a dozen such devices and attach them to all sorts of things that I can’t afford to lose: My car keys would be prime candidates. My five-year-old’s mittens could benefit as well. I’d even be willing to attach one to my bottle of moisturizer.

Another popular cold weather sport is trying to keep the house warm. This sport requires good manual dexterity as well as a high tolerance for emotional pain. This is because it usually involves writing checks to utility companies for obscene sums of money.

I remember one December when our heater went out. I called around, but no one could come out to fix it for several days. Larry and I tried to look on the bright side. We figured we’d save a little money on the electric bill that month. The bad news is that we were in the middle of a cold spell.

We did everything we could to stay warm, including relying on the kinds of gritty survival skills my husband perfected during his years as an Eagle Scout.

We built a fire.

Ah, but this was no ordinary fire.

After creating an architectural masterpiece of kindling and logs that would have garnered an approving nod from the most stringent Scout Master, my husband decided to get innovative. He collected palms that had fallen from the palm tree in front of our house, certain that the massive brittle fans would provide excellent fuel.

And he was right. He tossed a few into the fireplace, and they immediately burst into flames. Indeed, the fire roared hot and ferocious, with long flames leaping out of the fireplace, licking their way toward the mantel and singeing the toes out of all the Christmas stockings.

As black smoke began pouring into the house, Larry and I looked at each other and said, at the exact same moment, two little words. Savvy Eagle Scouts rarely have to say these words to each other, mainly because savvy-er Scout Masters only let them build fires in the woods.

We said in unison: “The flue!”

Indeed, the fireplace flue was firmly closed. The good news is that Larry eventually found a crowbar, reached in through the flames, and opened the flue. The bad news is that, to get rid of all the smoke in the house, we had to open all the windows for several hours, which meant the temperature in our house dropped even further, and we were forced to devise new ways to keep warm.

Kaitlyn was born nine months later.

This, of course, suggests a whole new category of cold weather sports. In fact, anyone who remembers the last Winter Olympics remembers that many commentators reported a disappointing drop in viewer interest. My guess is that the inclusion of this kind of sport would go a long way toward reviving interest and boosting viewer ratings.

But I shouldn’t complain about winter. I shouldn’t complain about any season, really, because every season says something to us about the kind of Being who would create such masterpieces as snowflakes, tender spring growth, summer thunderstorms, and fall’s rich harvest.

I hadn’t looked at a snowflake—I mean really looked at a snowflake—in years. But I did this week, with my kids, as we were playing in the snow. And when I studied the intricate design, exquisite even as it melted into my glove, I was filled with awe. “God made this,” I told Kacie. She was clearly moved, taking the opportunity of my reflective pause to plant a fistful of wet snow in my face.

Not that I mind a little snow in the face. In fact, harsh elements don’t worry me a bit. I am, after all, a serious athlete, well-practiced in my chosen sport.

Just give me a bottle of Jergens, and I’ll bring home the gold every time.