I have really tried to love winter. It is, after all, twenty-five percent of my life, time too precious to waste. I've tried. I can't do it. January moves like a freight train going through Sheffield, Alabama, during the busiest time of day, while May is like the Maglev that moves across Japan. The days from Christmas to April seems longer than the rest of the year put together. In my recollection of the cold Januarys of my youth, one in particular stands out. "Don't think I've ever seen it this cold before," Daddy said, and he had seen more than fifty winters by then. We lived in a shotgun house in a Tennessee holler, which was shaded even on the rare sunny days of winter. The only source of heat was a big heater in the living room, which warmed that room and the adjoining kitchen. The bedrooms across the hall (someone had enclosed the dogtrot by then) had no heat at all. One night during the extreme cold, Mama tu...
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