What’s with the cold morning? My house was only 62° when I disentangled myself from the dog and the cat huddled beside me. It’s sunny, but the sun is a ruse. The wind, from the north, is a chilly wind, and it blows the leaves to show their backsides. Tonight will be blanket weather, in the mid-30’s.

When I was a little kid, I don’t remember feeling hot or cold or caring one way or the other. In the winter, in the snow, we’d stay outside until our lips were blue. No self-respecting kid ever wasted snow. If my mother hadn’t forced me, I’d never have worn a hat or mittens or even buttoned my jacket. My protests that it wasn’t even cold fell on my mother’s conveniently deaf ears. We were forced to wear layers better fit for winter on a Siberian steppe.

In the summer, we’d get sweaty and filthy, but they were badges of honor, proof we had made the most of our days. I remember the joy of walking in mud and the sucking sound my sneakers made when I lifted them out of the ooze. Sometimes a sneaker got stuck in the mud, and I’d hop on one foot, reach down and pull it out of the muck. It was great fun. To my mother, though, mud was offensive. We weren’t allowed in the house proper and were banished straight to the cellar from outside. My mother met us, stripped us of the offending sneakers and garments, threw them right into the washing machine and muttered to herself the whole time about forever washing clothes and filthy kids. A bath inevitable followed.

I forget how old I was when mud stopped being fun and a stain on a blouse meant it was no longer wearable. It was around the same time that cute matching knitted scarves, gloves and hats became voluntary winter wear. It was the end of my childhood.