I'm really not a fan of winter. I mean, I could be, if I were independently wealthy. Then I'd build a nice cabin somewhere and drink hot cocoa and go sledding and ride around in a sleigh on my many acres and whatnot.

I was raised in the south, where it doesn't get all that cold, and really, I'm just a little further north. Our heater doesn't like it when it goes below freezing and has fits, so I'll go downstairs and find it's at 61 degrees or so. And I'll feel whiny and cold and depressed and all.

But then I think, "if it was 61 degrees F outside, I'd be saying how warm it is and wearing short sleeves". Reading Willa Cather also reminds me that I grew up without central heating. Every year the wood stove would be hauled in from the carport and the pleading with damp wood and so forth would begin. Said stove was fairly large and would heat about 2 rooms. These rooms didn't include the bathroom or the bedrooms, mind you. You wanted to be warm, well, that's what cats are for.

I also lived in upstate NY for a brief stint in my childhood in an un-insulated trailer with no running water, spotty electricity, and an oil heater that broke down if it got too cold. I managed to get frostbite while inside and while wearing gloves, socks, boots, jacket, etc. This is the place where my then-cat picked up the habit of curling around my head at night like a furry, purring set of earmuffs. (unfortunatley, he couldn't see why one wouldn't want that in an Arkansas summer of 100 degrees at night)

So, if it's 61 degrees downstairs in the morning, I can just cope. The fish isn't frozen in his bowl, the snakes have a heating pad, and all's just fine. I'm just old and coddled with modern amenities. :>