As seasons go, they are not that variable: Winters are winters as far as I’m concerned; some are good, some not so good. The way I remember them most vividly is that every year, in the long ago past, a few days before Christmas, I would get a cold. It would last until Valentine’s Day, at which time I would still be sick ….and sometimes really sick, even hospital sick — like clockwork.

I’m still wary, to this day, but so far this year it has been different. Why? I don’t know. Maybe my shelf life has been extended or maybe I’m just in store for a back-log of good luck retrieval. I’ll check again later.

As for the long-ago days my colds would always start a few days after we’d made our trip to the Wellman Locker Plant for a big piece of our home-grown beef with which I was expected to create the annual vegetable soup for our Christmas eve guests. I could not smell or taste anything, so it was by ‘guess and good luck’ that I always managed to create the soup, but I always had to ask everyone how it was. They were kind, I’m sure, except for my sister-in-law who more than once suggested I not include green peppers in the mix.

That was alright. I didn’t care either for the oyster stew she always made and served. I like a lot of different foods, but from childhood, at which time I determined I did not like evaporated milk, I sometime, probably at this time, included oysters.

She encouraged me to “try it” and plopped a large bowl of thick milky substance in front of me—a large anemic looking lump of something squatted in its center. I immediately went to the kitchen and came back with a fork and paring knife intent on becoming more familiar with this thing. While I was in the process of performing an amateur colonoscopy, she returned to my side.

“What’s that?” I asked, training the knife point at a long dark stream of something oozing from its middle.

“That’s oyster,” she replied. “You’re not supposed to cut it apart, just eat it, whole,” and promptly popped it into her mouth. Momentarily stunned, I stammered my hesitancy was because: “I don’t eat things I can see have eaten something before I am supposed to eat it.” I thanked her, and meekly added: “Is it okay with you if I happen to puke anyway?”

That could be one of the leading reasons I still have a penchant for not enjoying winter’s solstice time.