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Old Man Winter’s Return May Not be So Welcome This Time

[1]1,293 words

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.

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You can buy Greg Johnson’s Truth, Justice, & a Nice White Country here [3]

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 [4]” 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 [5].” 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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