The Hardest Winter

Newsletter 2025-12-15

My house is cold. You’d think I’d be prepared for this by now, yet, every winter, I’m caught unaware. Adulthood is mostly just promising to do better next year and then doing exactly the same. I put self-improvement in the same category as Bigfoot and the Loch Ness monster. My dad just read that sentence to mean self-improvement is absolutely real. I can’t make fun of him too much, though. His house is actually warm.

My wife Lola and I failed at a critical part of the home-buying process. The shelter that we chose doesn’t provide much shelter. We bought it in the heat of the summer, when the high ceilings kept rooms cool. It didn’t occur to us that that same feature might make us freeze to death in the worst part of the year. If only someone had warned us that Indiana has four seasons. This weekend, the temperature dipped to negative five. That’s when penguins get frostbite. Our house now looks like a blanket fort. We covered our windows and doors with every piece of fabric available. It wasn’t enough. I walk around my house in my warmest hoodie over every other article of clothing I own. If you don’t wear everything from your wardrobe at once, are you even a real Midwesterner? On the other hand, maybe you just bought a better house.

The winters must have been milder back when this structure was built in the early 1900s. Then again, maybe it was as cold as it is now, but this was the best protection from the elements that construction technology of the time allowed. It was assumed that a certain percentage of your family would freeze to death between December and February. That’s why people had so many kids. Houses were insulated with hopes and dreams. Any warmth was strictly aspirational. To get any family members through the coldest months, the house had a smoke-belching furnace in the basement. It consumed more coal than the Titanic and kept half of West Virginia employed. That was then. Now, we have a gas furnace that allegedly provides some warmth. That’s the only reason I’m able to write this without gloves on. We’ll see if that’s still the case on night two of this cold snap.

Our thermostat is set at 70. As I write this, the current temperature in the house is 62. The furnace had a rough night. The problem was dust. When I checked the filters, they were completely coated. I’m surprised the furnace didn’t shut off due to a lack of air flow. Maybe oxygen is a myth like self-improvement. The issue started with the slightly warmer weather we had recently. It turned our backyard into a sea of mud, which the pigs tracked into their room at the back of the house. It didn’t stay there. The mud dried and turned to dust, which wafted through the cold air return, where it collected on the filters. You might think that would somehow keep the place clean, like a whole house-vacuum, but nothing could be further from the truth. The dust bunnies are reproducing like real bunnies. I need to make an emergency trip across the tundra to buy new filters. This seems like one of those cases where I should use a service to deliver essentials from Walmart. I would, but I couldn’t afford the surcharge. It costs extra for delivery by dog sled. Even huskies want to stay home today.

If I hadn’t needed filters, I still would have had to venture out this weekend. For that, I could thank my kids. My fifteen-year-old, Betsy, had a sleepover scheduled for Saturday night. The start time was in the middle of our most recent snowstorm, which was burying the world under another six inches of the powdery white stuff. I kept asking her if the sleepover was canceled. It was not. I get it. It was a birthday sleepover for her friend. With how close the holidays are, if it was canceled this Saturday, it simply wouldn’t happen. You only turn sixteen once. Then again, you turn seventeen zero times if you freeze to death at sixteen. The house in question was only 1.4 miles away. In those conditions, it still proved treacherous. For bonus points, I had to pick up Betsy’s friend, whose mom had a vehicle that couldn’t handle the snow. That required me to drive down an unplowed alley. My minivan made it, but barely. The sleepover house was just far enough out of town that it had a long country driveway that hadn’t been shoveled. When I got to the end of it, the next reluctant parent pulled into the driveway, boxing me in. The birthday girl’s dad asked me to pull forward up a slight slope. I couldn’t make it. It was the first time in human history that a minivan has fallen short. Maneuvering both vehicles out of that tight spot took much shoveling and traffic direction. It was almost like neither vehicle should have been out that night. When I finally got free, I rushed home so I could resume freezing indoors. It’s a time consuming hobby.

The pigs have it worse than the rest of us. I woke up Sunday morning to discover that the water in one of their two troughs had frozen solid. I have electric heaters in both that are supposed to stop that very thing from happening. That led to a game I play far too often called Find the Failure Point. Does the heater work but the spot by the door is too cold; does the heater work but half the electric socket is broken; or is the heater simply faulty? I’ll have to swap around variables until I find the answer. The culprit is likely ghosts or enemy saboteurs. The Russians have long been jealous of my ice melting technology.

Pigs are comfortable at the same temperatures humans are, but with the noticeable disadvantage of not wearing clothes. The pigs, not the humans. All the people in this house are fully dressed at all times or else. I wear a button-up shirt in the shower. If left to their own devices, the pigs would stay inside in the pig room all day. That’s why I have to feed them in the yard. If I didn’t tempt them outside with pellets, there might be accidents. Lately, when they’re inside, they’re even more inside than usual. They’ve figured out how to use doors. The doggy door between the pig room and the back porch is built in a screen door that’s really just a painted piece of plywood on hinges. Don’t judge me. Actually, if there’s anything you should judge me for, it’s that. It pretty much sums me up as a person. In front of that fake screen door, there’s a regular house door. Until recently, I kept that door propped open all the time so the pigs could get to the doggy door. The doggy door is drafty and lets in a lot of cold air. When the temperature dropped, I closed the inside door and hoped the pigs would hold it. I didn’t need to worry. The pigs can open the interior door with their snouts. Like many other doors in the house, it doesn’t close all the way. The pigs can pry it open by the edge that sticks out. In this case, that’s a good thing. I can keep it closed all day, and they can open it themselves when they hear me in the yard with food. Better yet (or more concerningly), they’ve started closing the door behind them. This borders dangerously on the use of tools. They might be accidentally knocking it closed as they move about, or they might be doing it deliberately to stay warm. It’s hard to say. All I know for certain is that Sunday, I took this video of Gilly opening and closing the floor vent. They’re mastering technology at an alarming rate. If I ever disappear, they should be your chief suspects.

My children have also mastered the use of tools. Despite their big brains and opposable thumbs, they’ve been choosing to go outside and be cold voluntarily. Mae, Lucy, and Waffle have made repeated trips to play in the snow. The temperatures are unsafe, but the girls never go more than a few feet from the house. I hope Cub and BSA Scouts have instilled them with the survival skills to last for brief periods in the elements. I fully support them going outside because they can do it entirely on their own. They’re at the wonderful in-between age where they’re still young enough to think the snow is fun but old enough to put on and take off their snow gear themselves. The only part I have to deal with is when they come inside and toss all of their wet clothes on the vents. The mass of soaking fabric is thick enough to block airflow and make the house colder. It got so bad that Lola decided to use extra electricity and put snow gear in the dryer. That’s how you know the next ice age is upon us. Hell froze over.

Photo by Jametlene Reskp on Unsplash

I wish that when the kids would go outside they’d do something productive like shovel the sidewalk. That’s against their nature. Anything that’s helpful is, by definition, not fun. They want to make snow angels, not clear walking paths. Maybe I can trick them by requesting that they make snow angels down the length of the sidewalk. Short of that, I’ll have to shovel later today. That’s rare for me. Usually, I wait for things to melt. Spring is never that far away. This time, though, the temperature is going to stay awful for a prolonged period. If I don’t move the snow, it could freeze and make walking dangerous until March. My neighbor who used to randomly use his snowblower on my sidewalk is still nowhere to be found. Either he decided to winter in Florida or he’s already frozen to death. He’s a prime example of why you shouldn’t do nice things for other people. Rather than being thankful for everything he did for me before, I wonder why he’s not doing those things for me now. I’m ungratefulness personified. My children should choose a better role model.

I did make one improvement since the prior snowstorm: This time, I didn’t drive from one suburb to another during the worst part of it. After I got back from the short (but ill-advised) trip to drop-off Betsy, I stayed inside. Rather than visiting our friends, we had a video call and played games virtually. Everybody seemed happier with that. I sat on my own bed under a blanket. The second the call was over, I rolled over and went to sleep. My walls might not be insulated and my furnace might be struggling, but in my own bed, I couldn’t be more comfortable. Maybe I’ll stay there until spring. Bears have it all figured out.

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Catch you next time.

James