In Dreadful Winter, Distraction is the Key

The Boston Globe

It started last Sunday as the rain fell and fell, that closed-in feeling, that sense of foreboding, of "Oh, no, here it comes."

It's only rain, I said out loud, an incantation, really. It's rain, not snow. Be grateful.

And I was. Or tried to be. But last winter is still in the rearview mirror, with its mountains of snow, and impassable roads and sidewalks, and caved-in roofs, and ice dams, and no place to park the car, and endless, stormy days. And there's not enough distance between then and now for me to delude myself into thinking that snow is anything but a major problem.

But this is a bad, bad attitude, especially for someone who lives in New England.

If you can't change your circumstances and fly off to warmer climes, you have to change your attitude, right? That's what all the self-help books say. Learn to live in the moment. Learn to love where you are. Learn to embrace the now, never mind that the writers of these books are, no doubt, at this very moment, somewhere sunbathing, barefoot and slathered in sunscreen sipping something cold and sweet (Hello, Dr. Phil!) and not the least bit concerned about snow and ice and how they are going to get their car out of the driveway.

But back to the part about loving where you are. I am trying. Every summer, I think that come winter, I will love where I am. I will savor the feeling of coming in from the cold to a cozy house. I will love . . . socks! Thick, fat, wonderful, warm socks! And I will love sweaters and jeans still warm from the dryer.

But that's it. That's all I've got. That's all I ever get when I make my mental winter-things-to-be-thankful-for list. My friend Bill Fisher likes soup. He loves soup. He gets excited by soup. I would add soup if I liked it. But I like salad better. Lobster salad. Lobster rolls. Sullivan's. Castle Island on a hot summer day. That's what excites me.

A few years ago, in an effort to blot out winter and recreate June, I tried slathering Coppertone all over my arms and legs then sitting next to a space heater. The smell was nice and the heat, too. But in the end all this trick did was make me miss summer even more.

I tell my granddaughter Lucy when her mom and dad are out somewhere and she is missing them that they will be back soon. (I also tell her that a bear ate mom and dad and this makes her laugh.)

Spring will be here soon, we tell ourselves every day of the long cold winter. But, like mom and dad nowhere to be seen when Lucy wants them, the words "spring is coming soon" bring little solace.

Distraction is the only way to make it through the winter. Find something else to think about.

"A bear ate mom and dad," I tell Lucy. "No, it was a lion." "No, a caterpillar ate mom and dad." And on we go, both of us naming animals and laughing and laughing, until Lucy is no longer missing her mom and dad at all.

Distraction is the key. Winter people know this. They skate. They ski. They take advantage of all the fun things winter allows them to do. They don't focus on all the things they can't do.

I am going to take a page from these winter people. I am going to stop counting the days until spring. Instead, I am going to focus on what winter offers: long nights to play games and learn games and catch up with friends and read all the books I've been meaning to read. And organize photos. And binge-watch one of the many series I have yet to watch.

And some nights, even if it's snowing, I am going to put on warm socks and a sweater and jeans and go out somewhere, anywhere. Take the train to Boston, maybe, because it's pretty in the snow. And duck into a restaurant to savor the feeling of coming in from the cold.

And maybe, just maybe, I will try the soup.