You know winter is knocking on the door when the go-to topic of every conversation is windchill. You know winter has moved in and made itself at home when the house settles with loud cracks, the hardwoods creak and kitchen cabinets along an outside wall have the interior temperature of a cave. Winter soon becomes an uninvited houseguest with no departure date in sight.

Experts claim that exposing oneself to light is the best defense against a long, dreary winter. I have taken this wisdom to heart, frequently rotating from the glow of the light in the refrigerator to the warmth of the light over the stove, to the radiance of the light in the oven.

Yes, there is a correlation between all those appliance lights and seasonal weight gain, but when you pull a warm apple crisp from the oven, that idea completely disappears – often beneath a mound of vanilla ice cream. It’s hard to hear rational thought when you’re chewing.

In the long days of winter, I often take my laptop into whatever room has sunlight streaming in. I do this in hopes of increasing productivity, and it does. Naps increase exponentially in the warmth of the sun.

A friend announced she wasn’t going to suffer through another long, dreary Midwest winter and was taking preemptive steps. This is commonly known as “Freezing the Day.”

She and her husband booked a rental on the coast of Alabama in March. They have planned every hour of every day of their trip: Absorbing the sun.

My first newspaper job out of college was in North Dakota, at the Fargo Forum. I started in January. The temperature was 19 degrees below zero, which means the windchill was probably 70 below.

Every time I stepped outside, the moisture on my nose hairs froze into tiny icicles. With every breath taken, I could feel a burn deep in my lungs. Covering a story in Minot, I was informed their claim to fame was having more mentions on the Weather Channel than any other town.

The people were warm and hospitable, but the frigid temperatures were unbearable. I left before a second winter. I regret not having a shirt that says, “I survived winter in Fargo.”

I have recently spied an enormous squirrel on our patio. He is so large that when he sits on his haunches, he can fold his tiny hands and rest them on his enormous protruding belly. He has no definable neck. If squirrels played football, this one would be a linebacker.

The squirrel is either a warning we’re in for a North Dakota winter, or a sign to quit warming myself in front of all the appliance bulbs.

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