Ends become beginnings

 
I know it's a little lame to talk about the weather, but it's on my mind.
Petty small talk could not be more unbearable than when the weather is mentioned-- that is, anywhere but in Logan, Utah. In Cache Valley, nestled between Sardine Canyon and the wild frontier of Idaho, the citizens of Logan have a fierce delight in discussing- and berating- the weather, as if it had done them an extremely personal injustice.
When I first moved to Logan I was annoyed by the weather-- not the weather itself, you see, but by the great fuss it caused among the residents of Cache Valley.
"Hope you got some snow boots," cackled a wrinkled old man at the bus stop when I told him I had not yet endured a famous Logan winter. Rolling my eyes, I stepped onto the bus. It was only fall, and so far the weather here was not even worth mentioning. Even before the weather turned chilly, Logan inhabitants were already mourning the loss of vegetation, of warmth, of the sun. I was sick of everyone telling me how horrible my life would be after November. Like most teenagers, I believed my contentment was infallible; the cold wouldn't touch me.
How wrong I was.
Looking out the window at 8:20 in the morning on a winter's day in Logan, Utah is deceiving. The sun shines brightly. The sky is a lovely peacock blue-- not a wisp of cloud in sight. The naked branches of the weeping willow in our front yard are as still as statues. Feeling cheered by this semblance of good weather, I leave my coat unbuttoned and turn the handle of the door. The moment it opens, the biting cold comes. This isn't the ordinary chill that causes shivering and a desperate longing for warmth. This is biting iciness, stinging, painful, angry-- so cold it burns. Any exposed skin will immediately turn to goose flesh. Nose hairs freeze solid. Deep breaths cannot be taken without a fit of violent coughing. And then, without even a whisper of warning, the wind picks up, and even what's covered by a winter coat quakes with fear as the numbness sets in. The sidewalk is covered with ice and the windshields of cars sport a stubborn frost. The sun continues to shine, but the cold kills.
Oh, I knew Logan was colder than Salt Lake City when I moved here. But that doesn't make the winters more bearable. I'm on my fourth winter here, but even now I feel a bitter animosity toward the snow and ice that refuses to melt until April. I want to shake my fist at the frigid winds that blow from the Northeast. It is here only, in the subzero climate, that discussion of the weather is not reserved for new acquaintances or strangers, but for the most intimate of friends. I need only walk through the steamy glass doors of the restaurant where I am meeting my friend for lunch, point to my frozen jaw and too-pink cheeks to generate the mutual understanding for my lateness. The weather. Oh, she understands. It is everyone's worst enemy here. We could spend the entire afternoon cursing winter and dreaming lazily of summer evenings, when the warmth of the sun still lingers on the pavement and the mornings are alive with the music of songbirds. Our only hope is that the end of winter signals the beginning of spring.
Yes indeed. Perhaps it is wrong of me to talk so much about the weather. But it is on my mind.