Dang, It's Cold!

You know it’s cold when…

Your horse has icicles hanging from his whiskers like he just lost a frozen spaghetti-eating contest. The dogs break the sound barrier sprinting to the barn because even their fur has goosebumps. And the chickens? They don’t even cluck until after 7 a.m.—just a bunch of fluffy bowling balls glaring at me from their perch like, “You first, lady.”

The thermometer read -17°F this morning. That’s seventeen below. And around here, that’s what we call light jacket weather. Honestly, it’s been such a mild winter, I’ve caught myself bragging, “At least it’s not -40!” like that’s a reasonable sentence for a human being to say.

But speaking of -40...

Let me take you on a magical journey—back to a time when it was -40°F and I was brilliantly standing outside in my bathrobe and slippers. Yes. Robe. Slippers. Trash bag in hand. Clearly, I was nominated for the Darwin Awards and just needed that final push.

All I had to do was toss the garbage in the can and get back inside. Easy peasy. Except… click. That sneaky little door lock, which I hadn’t turned but must’ve nudged in just the wrong way, decided today was the day to flex its independence.

I was locked out. In -40°F. In slippers made from whatever material disintegrates first in a strong breeze. My brain immediately fired up the list of terrible ideas:

• Walk half a mile to the neighbor’s? Sure, if I was hoping to be found next spring as a tragic cautionary tale.

• Hotwire the truck? Lady, you can’t even pair Bluetooth earbuds.

• Smash a window? Now that had potential. I mean, what’s a little glass shard in your sock if it means survival?

So I hustle—shuffle really, because frostbite was already tap dancing on my toes—over to the workshop, grab a hammer, and march back to the house with the same determination as Jack Nicholson at the end of The Shining. I raise the hammer, ready to channel my inner Viking, but I figure I should at least check in with the Big Guy before I go full Norse on my thermal-pane glass.

So I look up at the sky and mutter, “Okay, God. If You’ve got a better idea, now would be a good time to share.”

Clear as a bell in my frozen little brain: “Hit the door handle.”

Now let me tell you something about metal at -40. It doesn’t bend. It doesn’t dull. It goes from “functional hardware” to “glass candy sculpture” real fast. I tapped that doorknob once—once—and it disintegrated like it owed me money.

Second tap? Latch popped. Door swung open. Warmth, glorious warmth! I fell through the threshold like a half-thawed fish flopping back into a lake, sobbing from relief and frost-nibbled dignity.

And what did it cost me? Just a door handle. A small price to pay for a story I can now drag out every time someone complains that it’s “a little chilly.”

Moral of the story?

1. Always check the lock.

2. Hide a spare key somewhere even your chickens don’t know about.

3. And if you find yourself in a robe with a hammer, maybe pause and say a prayer before you go full Hulk.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to sit by the woodstove in six layers of flannel and reevaluate my life choices—again.

Stay frosty, my friends. But, like, not literally.

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