Winter again.

I know. It’s been winter for months. But our snow cover is spotty, and temperatures have been teasing the freezing point for weeks—sometimes above, sometimes below. Weather as cold as that would have seemed awful back in October, but in January it’s not so bad.

Today the bottom dropped out. And by “the bottom dropped out,” I don’t actually mean record-breaking low temperatures. I just mean the playing field has moved south to zero-to-fifteen Farenheit territory, wind chills down below zero.

And it feels miserable.

Later, sometime in February, it won’t seem so bad either.

I don’t handle the cold well. I’m fairly sure I’ve told you that. When hardier souls are clapping their unmittened hands and saying, “Ah, this is good! This is bracing!” I’m trying to find another sweater, and calculating whether I can conserve more body heat by jamming my hands in my pockets or using them to cover my ears.

Cold induces physical pain in me, quickly following exposure. My ears hurt. My fingers hurt. My brother Moloch informs me (relentlessly) that it’s all psychological. It’s a failure of my character. If I had a better attitude, he says, I’d enjoy the cold as much as he does.

I’m not convinced. I think I know as much about bad attitudes as anyone, and although I spend enough time in Depressionville to qualify for resident status there, I’ve never been able to make a bad mood deliver actual, physical pain.

And where does Moloch get off talking about character, anyway? He lives in Iowa. It’s practically tropical down there.

Winter again.

I know. It’s been winter for months. But our snow cover is spotty, and temperatures have been teasing the freezing point for weeks—sometimes above, sometimes below. Weather as cold as that would have seemed awful back in October, but in January it’s not so bad.

Today the bottom dropped out. And by “the bottom dropped out,” I don’t actually mean record-breaking low temperatures. I just mean the playing field has moved south to zero-to-fifteen Farenheit territory, wind chills down below zero.

And it feels miserable.

Later, sometime in February, it won’t seem so bad either.

I don’t handle the cold well. I’m fairly sure I’ve told you that. When hardier souls are clapping their unmittened hands and saying, “Ah, this is good! This is bracing!” I’m trying to find another sweater, and calculating whether I can conserve more body heat by jamming my hands in my pockets or using them to cover my ears.

Cold induces physical pain in me, quickly following exposure. My ears hurt. My fingers hurt. My brother Moloch informs me (relentlessly) that it’s all psychological. It’s a failure of my character. If I had a better attitude, he says, I’d enjoy the cold as much as he does.

I’m not convinced. I think I know as much about bad attitudes as anyone, and although I spend enough time in Depressionville to qualify for resident status there, I’ve never been able to make a bad mood deliver actual, physical pain.

And where does Moloch get off talking about character, anyway? He lives in Iowa. It’s practically tropical down there.

Bill on his Out of the Bloo blog copied a personal meme which basically asks the same question a few times over: what do you like to do most? He has tagged me. Now, I’m faced with a real conflict between how I think of myself and what I am. But let’s go through this:

0) What’s your name and website URL? (optional, of course)

Phil at brandywinebooks.net

1) What’s the most fun work you’ve ever done, and why? (two sentences max)

I think editing my college newspaper, though not a job, has been the most enjoyable assignment I’ve ever had. I remember feeling larger than myself, unrestrained by my hat, while walking across campus at 3:00 a.m. after finishing the week’s paper.

2) A. Name one thing you did in the past that you no longer do but wish you did? (one sentence max)

Write stories–I mean, I don’t write fiction regularly enough to say that I do it now, but that will change.

B. Name one thing you’ve always wanted to do but keep putting it off? (one sentence max)

Write stores–Ok, maybe I should choose something else: study drawing or sketching.

3) A. What two things would you most like to learn or be better at, and why? (two sentences max)

This gets at fiction writing too, but I blog instead (and complain and sometimes read). The second thing–no, it’s the first thing–I’d like to learn is loving the Lord with all of my heart, mind, and strength.

B. If you could take a class/workshop/apprentice from anyone in the world living or dead, who would it be and what would you hope to learn? (two more sentences, max)

This is a hard question, but I think I could take a chance on being Shakespeare’s apprentice. Realistically, I’d like to sit under Walter Wangerin.

4) A. What three words might your best friends or family use to describe you?

philisophical, giving, and artistic (my wife helped me with this)

B. Now list two more words you wish described you.

prolific and joyful

5) What are your top three passions? (can be current or past, work, hobbies, or causes– three sentences max)

Words and literature; honest, biblical worship for myself, family, and friends. I can’t pick a third.

6) Write and answer one more question that YOU would ask someone (with answer in three sentences max)

Name something that makes you angry? Injustice

I need to write a meme one of these days, though I doubt I could write anything better than this one on books.

Paul McCain at Cyberbrethren has asked his readers to link to his post on the release of Concordia Publishing’s new edition of Concordia: The Lutheran Confessions. There’s a special discount offer and everything.

I don’t ordinarily pass on commercial offers, but McCain is a fan of my books and a publisher too, and hard experience has taught me to ingratiate myself with publishers at every opportunity, even if they’re not my publishers.

Which, when you think about it, most of them aren’t.

Item: I got a cell phone, finally. I had one once before, a pay-as-you-go thing that cost me far more than the value I got out of it, except for the putting at ease of my mind. This one ought to be more economical. I got it through a special program with AAA, one designed for people who mainly want a phone for emergencies. I pay just ten bucks a month, but I get no free minutes. Perfect for urban hermits. The slogan could be, “This phone could save your life, even though you obviously don’t have one!”

It’s a Nokia, a bare-bones model with a black-and-white display. Probably because of its lack of frills, it’s amazingly small (or seems so to me). It’s about the size of one of those old Zippo lighters from WWII, except a little taller. Clearly the near-disappearance of cigarettes from American life has created a spiritual vacuum, a need for a Zippo-sized object to carry around in our clothes. And behold, the moment has produced the object.

And no, you can’t have the number.

Unless you’re Sissel.

Or a publisher.