WINTER

"Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow."

Winter in Northwest Florida brings frost and occasional freezing temperatures, causing homeowners with beautiful camellia bushes to tenderly cover them, and every household discusses the best means of protecting pipes from breaking. Snow, however, is a rare, brief and historic event. Christmas cards, showcase windows, seasonal songs all feature snow, but I never saw snow in the Northwest Florida Panhandle.

Cold, it can be very cold in the short winter season of late November, December and January. Before the days of central heating, the cold seemed particularly intense if one had to arise before the bedroom had been warmed by a fire in the fireplace. Those open fireplaces were also the cause of serious, terrible burns to children.

“Marj'rie," Cattie would command with alarm. "Get back from that fire. Can't you see the screen's not in front of it? You wanta get yoreself burnt to a crisp?" The thought was horrifying.

More than the concerns about the hazards of open fires, however, I recall the special pleasure of the glow of firelight. The mesmerizing quality of staring into a fire could transport a schoolgirl to a nirvana unencumbered by conscious, sequential thought. It was and is also a wonderful enhancer of the enjoyment of music, especially when listening to popular love songs with a special beau. The incongruity of listening to "Moon over Miami, Shine on my Love and Me,” and how far that balmy scene was from our part of Florida and winter didn't occur to me until years later.

Before the advent of this more adult association with fires, my happiest recollections of open fires are of adolescent pleasures. In the mid-thirties the City, with the aid of WPA funds, built an outdoor cement skating rink in the lakeyard. This set off a skating craze that carried over for seventh and eighth graders into night time skating adventures.

Clear, cold nights would inspire a group of boys and girls to skate all over the town: around the lake, across the L. & N. railroad tracks to deserted downtown streets and on to the court house, where the cement was smoothest. Around and around the Confederate monument we circled until someone--usually Buford Jenkins--led the way back to the sidewalk around the lake. The conclusion of this kind of outing was at someone's home around the living room fireplace, sipping hot chocolate, or special prearranged parties with parent or teacher chaperones where we delighted in a marshmallow roast on the banks of the lake.

In the 1930s before antibiotics, the dread pneumonia took a winter toll, as with my father. Sad as these partings were, it was my impression that death was accepted as a part of life by this community of believers. The people were predominantly of strong faith in the promises of God as articulated by Jesus for a mysterious continuance beyond this earthly existence. The thought of a reunion some day with a departed loved one helped soothe the terrible void of loss of physical presence.  But, my mother's cry, "Don't leave me, Malcolm," to my forty-five year old father as he struggled to breathe to stay alive remained with me always.

Winter, then, in my memory was not an especially joyous season, except for the brief Christmas celebration. Candlelight church services, the Christmas story of hope and love, carols, the family dinner at Aunt Bern's, sharing of gifts, all stir warm memories. Even that, however, is tinged with sadness for those who had so little in the Depression years.

After we acquired a small, oval-shaped Atwater Kent radio that sat on @ living room bookcase, winter evenings were more entertaining. My father listened regularly to Lowell Thomas and the six o'clock news. On those Sunday nights when Mamma felt it was too cold for us children to go to church, we sat in a semi-circle in front of the radio to hear the wonderful Eddie Cantor Show, and later George Burns and Gracie Allen; Jack Benny and Rochester and the NBC Symphony Orchestra conducted by Arturo Toscanini. 

Just about the time I'd think I could no longer endure the cold, cold walks to school or huddling about the stove in a tightly closed school room filled with the unpleasant smells of damp clothing or someone's unwashed socks, a narcissus blossom would appear in a circular bed my grandmother Tatom had planted in our front yard many years past. What a thrill to see those perky white fragrant flowers emerge despite the continuing chill. They offered promise of the coming delights of a warm spring. How I love narcissus and hate the cold!