Old Man Winter’s Return May Not be So Welcome This TimeNicholas R. Jeelvy
Yes, it’s that time of year again when my friends will claim that cold weather brings out the best in them, when silly white girls will claim that they love winter and that it’s the best season, when the shortening days give way to cold nights and hoarfrost greets every morning. It is a season of sweaters, long coats, woolen hats, and padded shoes — hopefully snow boots as well. There’s much to love about winter.
But there’s much to fear as well. The cold is a quiet and cruel killer. Without the hearth, without the home, without warm clothes, it is not possible to survive. The cold slowly creeps into the body, conquering it inch by inch. The body responds by conserving resources, withdrawing blood and heat to the torso and head to protect the vital organs, making a desperate gamble that it’ll buy time at the expense of the outer protrusions. Slowly, Jack Frost creeps from the outside in, beginning with the fingers and toes, the numbness and tingling of extremities being signs of his triumph. He’ll take fingers, he’ll take ears, he’ll take toes and noses, and when he’s had all that and if we’ve not yet left his domain, he’ll take all there is to take.
Imagine the best snowball fight you’ve ever had. Imagine the frantic throwing, rolling, ducking out of the way. Imagine hitting your opponent with pinpoint accuracy — only to find yourself empty-handed. Imagine diving behind a snowbank to scoop up another snowball. Imagine the paradoxical sensation of hot and cold, the exhilaration of the fight, the feeling of the freezing snow against your palms (the best snowballs are made without gloves). Imagine the romance of a snow-covered park. Imagine the brightness of a moonlit winter night. Imagine snowy slopes where white people ski and sled. There’s no diversity out on the snow. They don’t like it.
When I was a young lad and engaged my peers in snowball fights, the womenfolk of my family would always grumble about it. It is their place and in their nature to do so. The cold sets into a spirited young lad with distressing ease, and what spirited young lad wants to wear scarves, hats, or even a jacket? Doing so means losing mobility and thus being pelted with more snowballs. Taking off the cumbersome coverings is the only logical choice for the seven-year-old focused on winning the fight — not that such an engagement can ever be won or lost in any meaningful way. But the women lose their minds, and it’s not until you’re older, wiser, and develop a morbid fascination with all the ways a human being can expire that you understand why they were so frightened.
In the warmth of home after a long day in the snow, we discover — after the excitement has worn off — our fatigue, as it snuggles up against us and envelops the body. The crackling fireplace, the hot bath, the hot meal, the warm bed: They all soothe the body, beckoning a restful sleep. The day’s jubilation is replaced by the evening’s secure contentment, the weight and warmth of a heavy winter meal chased down with coffee and tea in the belly, the images of the winter night visible through the window-panes — but the cold knife of winter kept safely at bay. All the family is here, and we are, for a blessed moment, happy.
Now imagine all of that without the warmth of a home to retreat to.
If you want to feel sadness, pain, and cold; if you want a chill to grip your feet and spread up your legs all the way to your heart; if you want to choke back tears and weep for things unreal, I kindly suggest you read the fable of the “Little Match Girl” by Hans Christian Andersen. It’s the story of the life slowly draining out of a poor little girl who has lost her shoes on New Year’s Eve. It’s also the story of the dream of home: of warmth, food, and family. It’s also a story of dying, of being with God in the place where there is no cold, no hunger, and no fear. Our ancestors loved God and found themselves fearless in the face of death, because they believed in salvation through His grace.
If you want to feel pain, hope, and despair, and if you want to witness a brutal, losing struggle against the cold, read Jack London’s “To Build a Fire.” It puts the fear of old Jack Frost back into you: the very real and present danger of, first, slowly losing the use of your hands and feet, then your extremities, and finally, freezing to death. Old Man Winter grants you a final mercy: the option to surrender and drift off to sleep, perhaps to the place where there is no cold, hunger, or fear. But Jack London did not believe in God. All that awaits his adventurer freezing to death in the Yukon is the darkness, and a dying dream of warmth. The only one who will witness his passing is his dog, who soon scurries off to find a new provider of warmth and food.
Those phantoms of our past are long gone, though. We live in a world of unquestioned security. Old Man Winter has been banished from our lives. He claims fewer souls than ever. Jack Frost goes hungry: no fingers, toes, or ears for him. In our insulated homes equipped with central heating and electricity, dressed in our affordable winter clothes, cold hath no more dominion. And so, cheery white girls sipping their pumpkin spice lattes will declare that winter is their favorite season. They might even post pictures of themselves posing suggestively in winter clothes. They’ll search ferociously in their family trees for even a smidgeon of Russian ancestry and imagine themselves to be the lost Princess Anastasia.
Those same cheery white girls will then hold up “Refugees Welcome” signs. They will buck all standards of propriety and fritter away their fertile years “expressing themselves” in flurries of sexual incontinence while young white men find themselves unmarried and childless, never thinking about the future. Indeed, those same young men, ignoring the future because it’s meaningless to them, turn inwards and achieve nothing. Thus an entire generation of engineers, scientists, businessmen, thinkers, and leaders is being wiped out without firing a single shot. And when the brown and black hordes of the world descend upon the West, they eat the seed corn and avail themselves of our warm homes, but contribute nothing. They only wreck, destroy, breed — and they don’t like winter. All the while, the kakistocrats in charge of our countries are pushing forward with their schemes to impose draconian emissions restrictions on the West, in accordance with their twisted and false faith. All of these factors combine to undermine the underlying factors which give us the warmth, community, and security which allow us to love winter.
As I write these words, there’s a very real possibility that disruptions in the supply chain will cause fuel and power shortages throughout the West. Meanwhile, this unusually warm November has returned to the grey, foggy form I’ve become accustomed to. We had our first genuinely cold day some time ago. Parts of Europe and America are already under the cover of snow. Lady Autumn is slowly gathering her golden skirts and preparing for the final stage of her reign: cold-toothed, steely-skied November, harbinger of time’s inexorable march.
Behind her, in the wings, waits Old Man Winter, and for the first time in many years, our warm, watery flesh is within his reach. Will he take a bite? Who knows. But for the first time in a long, long time, he just might.
* * *
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I like winter. Specifically when it is cold outside and warm inside. I am reminded of how important the family is and how much a well-built, solid house is necessary to one’s survival in the world of nature.
The fact that this winter looks like a long one excites me; the last winter we had here in the States (that you could objectively call a winter) was in 2008 and 2009. Since then, the climate has been mild, with relatively warm summers, barely cool autumns, frosty-but-not-flurry winters and mildly fertile springs to follow.
The harshness of winter teaches us about preparing for the future and to ever be mindful of our physical circumstances, even while enjoying the company of loving family and friends and the memories they bring.
Winter is soon to be here, I wonder if it has something to say about our world and reality in general? Earlier this year when the 1/6 and Election scandals were unfolding, I came across a couple YT videos about there being a “winter” and the end of “this current era”. The theme this year has been of the, we lost but we can come back someday; we fought and lost, but we shall return one day to the field of battle; or that now we are entering a period of hiding and withdrawing from the wider world.
I think that long-term, the DR and it’s many followers should move to seek out each other and begin forming small communities, isolated from the rest of the world in backwaters and cultural bubbles; as far away from the Overlords as possible.
Thanks for the topic, Nix!
Jeelvy’s latest ridiculous attempt to rationalize his obsessive hatred of women: We’re silly because we like Christmas, because we get to spend time safe indoors with the family that cramps our style and we don’t want.
In truth, I have never heard a woman say winter is her favorite season. It’s always fall (the beautiful foliage and respite from the heat), summer (the beach/pool), or spring (flowers, relief from cold and cabin fever).
Of course, women do have objective, and very rational, reasons for liking winter, when male pathology is constrained by “Old Man Winter.”
Those same cheery white girls will then hold up “Refugees Welcome” signs.
When the history of White genocide is written, the greatest wonder will be that White men were so easily manipulated into hating and alienating their only allies by the enemy media, against all common sense and statistical evidence.
I like Nick Jeelvy’s writing, but the gratuitous misogynistic aside to which you refer is wrong for all the reasons that you say. One of the advantages of living in Europe rather than the USA is that we don’t by and large suffer from the weird anti-woman mentality of some American WNs. Relations between the sexes are much friendlier and dare I say, more normal, in the old continent, whatever other problems we have.
Nick is Macedonian, not American.
Macedonia is the Alabama of Europe.
I’m surprised that a Macedonian takes a leaf out of the American manosphere play book! Europeans usually have more sense. As I said, I like Nick’s writing very much overall, and am moreover biased in favour of Macedonians out of a folk memory of Vlado the Chauffeur and the other heroes of VMRO (my mother is Croatian, so we tend to see things from Vlado’s point of view!).
I used to loathe winter. Until last year. I got into downhill skiing (which was a disaster when I first tried it in high school late 80s in the Berkshires, and the second time 20 years ago at Snowshoe, WV). It began pretty bad this time around, ending up in trees and wiping out regularly. But with my wife and kids’ encouragement, I ended up loving it and doing pretty well, to the point where I rarely, if ever wiped out and when I did it was because I took more risks.
Nothing like carving into some deep, fresh powder on a cool day on the slopes, teens or even single digits, not colder, as the wind generated by schussing down the slope can be lethal if the base temperature is too cold. Great sport, and a good workout on the legs, needed for changing directions.
But my top sport is cross country skiing. So many great trails in New England, even with temps below zero, when it’s sunny and not windy, one works up a sweat skiing in the woods. My favorite sport along with swimming. The best cardio, easy on the joints, fluid, beautiful. And being in nature is such a blessing, après ski chilling at the casa after a full morning of skiing is a reward and a half.
I cannot describe how much I loathe downhill skiing. However, because my parents forced me to do it every winter, I’m also embarrassingly good at it. One of these days, if I’m in a more northerly locale, I may try cross-country skiing. It seems to be less loathsome as a sport.
I am formally requesting a written piece explaining why you loathe downhill skiing.
Snow Thrills Narrator: And Shiing is the correct pronunciation, they tell us.
Joel H: Yeah, Well I think you’re full of skit.
I am a D’NationChad. I expect results from my request.
It’d be both depressing and boring. My parents considered skiing to be a status symbol (due to the aforementioned cost of equipment and expeditions), so naturally, I had to ski and was beaten (sometimes with a ski pole) if I refused to. So, I learned to ski, dislocated my arm on a mechanical lift once, got very good at it and haven’t set foot on a slope since I stopped going on vacations with my parents.
You are correct, Sir!!!
I’ll count this as the piece.
Now let us never speak of this again.
Nick wrote, “I cannot describe how much I loathe downhill skiing.” I think I can understand that because, due to financial constraints, I could not downhill ski until I was out of college, at which point I took up the sport with a vengeance. It was not by chance that I found myself in one of the snowiest parts of the world then, either. Oh, to ski in powder up to my stomach was bliss. A new foot of March snow on a brilliant morning was heaven itself, especially when I was the first skier down the slope that day.
Fast forward five years, however, and I found myself in the middle of a seven day ski vacation and it suddenly hit me: “What’s the point?” Riding up mechanical lifts, coming down by going back and forth, back and forth. So predictable. I’d way overdone something I used to love.
But at the same time, I was also cross-country skiing more and more, and when I finally put away my heavy downhill equipment for good, I really got into long-distance cross-country skiing out in the woods where we packed our own trails and always had the opportunity to go to new places if we wanted. THAT became my new paradise and I’ve never looked back.
In fact, if you ignore the designations of “back country” and “mountain” skiing and just think of it all as “cross-country,” you can enjoy an amazing array of conditions. Perhaps what I love best is how the instability of cross-country skis going down a hill is the ONLY thing that brings back the thrill of youth in me. When I nearly fall at speed and one ski tip comes up over my head — but I rein it in and survive. Cause for open laughter.
When you get good enough, you’re ready for the gold standard: heading through powder down a steep hill. Even with flimsy cross-country bindings, you can do this with practice. Or you can get stouter skis and bindings (but still light) and do it sooner. Even if you fall, it will only be into deep powder.
White man, “GO TO SNOW!” It’s still part of our racial memory. Winter — bring it on.
Nothing demonstrates the veracity of ‘every action has an equal and opposite reaction’ as much as cross country skiing. The slightest motion of the body forward or backward and your skis fall out from under you. Very unforgiving. A testament to how low the friction is when the skis are in good shape, and how optimal a form of transportation xcountry skiing is for snow covered surfaces.
Gather up Woolens, Little Squirrels. Winter is coming.
Wool maintains 80% of its R value when wet. I’ve even read that the water trapped between wool fibers starts an exothermic reaction. I’m just an EE, don’t ask me about ThermoD stuff.
Can curtained four post beds, with bed warmers, be far behind this mess?
We might be wise to prepare for much colder winters in the northern hemisphere. According to Dr Valentina Zharkova from 2025 to 2045 the sun be approaching a solar minimum ushering in much colder weather/ climatic conditions – growing food will be more challenging.
Wonderful mediation on winter.
My feet are cold all the time now.
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