I am one of those weirdos who has lived in this area all his life and still loves the winter weather, from the snow to the ice, wind and cold.

I like it all. Why you ask? Without cold and barren winters, how would I ever truly appreciate spring? Without the bare trees to gaze through in January, how would I ever truly appreciate the blossoming buds and foliage of the early summer?

It is like being sad. Being sad just helps you appreciate being happy.

I have some fond winter memories that couldn't have happened in any other season. I recall the feeling of my late grandmother's wood stove after going out hunting. I swear, that stove was on loan from Satan's kitchen. It kept that little house on the branch - made of wood planks insulated with no more than tar paper and shingles - a cozy 120 degrees. The paint melted off the walls, but Grandma LaRue would still be sitting in her chair with a blanket over her legs, a queen upon her rocking-chair throne. I do admit that it felt marvelous for the first five minutes. Between the heat and the coffee that you could eat with a spoon, no one was cold at Grandma's house for long.

I don't understand how that woman lived in there as hot as it was, especially considering that she also used a wood cook stove. I would have learned to live on potted meat if I was having to cook in there.

The old house was drafty, but sometimes it is better to appreciate a draft than it is to fix it - especially when the house is hotter than Miami in July. That's just another lesson learned at Grandma's house.

I also recall visiting some people who heated with a big fireplace. They went to stoke up the fire, but needed more wood. So one fellow, tired of the whole wood-toting business, decided to mastermind it.

He went outside and soon returned, hefting the trunk of a tree. We soon noticed that he had cut the log a little long for stove wood.

For a matter of fact, it measured about 12-feet from trunk to tip and the limbs were bending and popping and the dead leaves were flying as he navigated it through the front door with a big smile on his face. While laughter echoed and the tree filled the room, he cautiously avoided a lamp and the couch and shoved the big end in the fireplace, tossing some small stuff around for good measure. "I'll feed her in as she burns up," he told my father with a straight face. I don't ever recall my dad laughing so hard.

It's funny, but I don't recall what happened next. The memory is just a snapshot in time, like so many others. Sometimes they fit together like a puzzle missing pieces, but still recognizable, sometimes not.

Every season has its memories, both good and bad. I guess that's life.

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