I’m proud to say that I make a heck of a fire. Honestly, I make great fires. Worthy of a Hallmark Christmas card, or, perhaps, as a scene in a holiday-themed Hallmark movie. Aren’t all Hallmark movies holiday-themed? I’m so proud of my fires that I post fireplace pictures and videos on Facebook and Instagram, along with screen captures from my iPhone’s weather app showing the Mid-South’s sometimes sub-freezing temperatures.
While making a fire might not be a big deal to many Memphians, this born-and-raised Floridian loves to bundle up in a coat and scarf and pop a thick knit beanie on my head. For me, sweater weather, as some folks call it, means a near constant parade of sweaters or pullovers to wear anytime I head out. At home on a chilly Sunday morning, we hang out in front of one of my famous fires, outfitted in sweat pants and plush fuzzy socks — hot coffee and a good book close by. Winter may be my favorite time of the year. But let’s make that our little secret, okay?
Cold weather is not a popular subject in my household. And don’t mention snow … even if it’s only a little bit.
Growing up in Tampa, Florida, in the 1970s, winter was about three weeks of chill from mid- to late-January and, some years, “cold weather” might’ve spilled into February. Christmas Day would find us outside shooting baskets in shorts and T-shirts. One year, relatives from New York brought us sweaters as gifts. They were thick, maybe wool, and looked expensive. Probably from Macy’s or Bloomingdale’s. I asked my mom, “What am I supposed to do with this?” She told me to hush and wear it at our family’s Christmas Day dinner. I ate dinner that year wearing my new sweater, along with cut-off shorts. The sweater itched. I never wore it again.
Nowadays, Floridians and all those transplanted snowbirds complain when the Sunshine State’s temperatures go below 60 degrees. The Floridians gripe about having to wear socks with their sandals while transplants grumble about pulling out their old puffer coats from the back of the spare closet. As far as I’m concerned, temps between 50 and 60 degrees mean a light hoodie, gym shorts, and slides. Guess I’m a Yankee, now … let’s keep that a secret, too.
After a four-year stop in Dallas, Texas, Vicki, my better half, and I have called Memphis home for 35 years and counting. Following our first couple of Mid-South winters, Vicki informed me — rather bluntly — that she was never moving north of Memphis. Never. Ever.
Nonetheless, there’s something about a beautiful, sunny winter’s day — that crisp feeling to the air, clear blue skies. What you might find in Colorado or New Hampshire, or in a Hallmark movie. Since we don’t have gorgeous mountain scenery here, I’ll take those “snow events” like we had earlier this year. Fluffy, puffy, and dry snow that covered our front yard. A winter wonderland digitally captured to prove to distant friends and relatives that, “Yes, it snows in Memphis.” Sometimes, a lot. Definitely not a popular subject inside our household.
The beautiful snow (along with the occasional dreaded ice) brings back memories, lots of memories. Wonderful and bittersweet, and, at times, frustrating. I remember the “old days” when the Mid-South was ill-prepared to handle winter weather — no sand or salt on our roadways, especially the neighborhood roads. Not many folks thought about spreading rock salt or kitty litter on sidewalks and building entrances. Snow and ice were a somewhat rare occurrence.
We survived Ice Storm ’94 and the Snowmageddons that frequently paralyze Memphis and the Mid-South. After all these years, I’m still amazed that whenever a “winter weather event” happens, many Memphians act as though it’s their first time experiencing cold temperatures and a potential wintry mix. There’s panicked grocery shopping and reckless driving on boulevards slick with snow or ice. Then again, Memphis drivers can’t seem to navigate our streets when they’re clear and dry. Frankly, this Florida Gator has more “cold weather” common sense than many locals.
Despite memories of cold weather disasters and misadventures, winter is a reminder of joy and happiness. Both of our children were born during the depths of winter. Emily was born about a week after the 1994 ice storm, and Zach arrived two years later, on a Super Bowl Sunday, when Super Bowls were still played in January. The Cowboys won that year — a little coincidental karma for our family.
Memories of guiding sleds down “the hill” in front of our home. Snowball fights with the neighbors. Building a snowman that quickly became a snow blob as temperatures climbed from the sun’s rays.
Yeah, I’ll admit it — I love winter. Just wish it wasn’t so windy all the time.
Ken Billett is a freelance writer and short-story fiction author. He and his wife, Vicki, have called Memphis home for over 35 years. When not listening to blues music, Ken reads spy novels and tends to his flowers.
