Written By Michele Roldán-Shaw
Photography By Margaret Palmer

It's easy to hate winter. Besides the cold, there's the reminder that we too are coming to an end, that one day we'll dry up and rot like any old fallen leaf. But this period of dormancy is needed, for the land as much as for us. Imagine how burnt out we'd get if we partied on the river year round! At the very least we ought to party with our clothes on sometimes.

And who could really complain if they're seeing what I'm seeing right now: golden marsh and deep cobalt waters, songbirds flitting in the evergreen of slash pines and live oaks, an encouragingly thick understory of palmetto, holly, wax myrtle and cedar. Looking out the window, the only way I can tell it's cold is by the cut-up ripples on the water, since it never blows like that in summer.

There are places where you might see the sun in winter but you can't feel it, because the rays are too indirect and weak. But we're far south enough that even in February you can bask—get out of the wind and sit in the sun, and I guarantee for a moment you'll forget yourself. There have been Thanksgivings for bikinis and Christmases for boat rides, New Year's Eves on the porch and Valentine picnics in the park. I once heard a woman from Savannah say that every Christmas morning her father insisted on building a fire in the hearth, but it always got so hot in their church clothes they had to cut the air on. That's winter in the Lowcountry.

Make no mistake, however, there are times of bitter cold: a seeping numbing clenching biting chill that makes its way through every layer to penetrate the marrow of your bones. A cousin of mine from Southern California, but who lived in Boston for a time, came here to visit one November. I told her to bring clothes for the cold and she scoffed at me, believing herself newly immunized against winter— how could South Carolina possibly faze her after the blizzards and subzero snaps of Boston? Well, she found out really fast: just like they say "It's not the heat, it's the humidity"—the same is true of the cold. That brutal wind blows off the water and freezes up your cheeks so you can't talk properly; your fingers are raw and clumsy. You take off your shoes and your socks are mysteriously wet, a cold clamminess that is at the root of your misery. I've seen oystermen get ready to go out, and they put plastic grocery sacks around their thickly socked feet before struggling into hip boots. Me, I'm partial to silk long underwear, the only thing I know that can somewhat ward off this particular brand of cold, I suppose because it wicks moisture away from the skin.

Two winters ago, when it snowed and we had that crazy cold spell where it went down into the low twenties every night for three weeks, I camped out at Hunting Island. Gallon jugs of water were freezing solid on the back of my truck, and if I didn't put them in the sun they stayed like that all day. The only way I could be comfortable was to keep moving, or build a fire, or sit in the truck cab in the sun. At night I slept in sweats and two sleeping bags, in my tent with the rainfly pulled tight, but still I was cold because there was no way to stop moisture from creeping in. On my third night I got desperate and heated up a rock in the fire to put at the bottom of my bag like a footwarmer, but I forgot that synthetic fibers are basically plastic, and I melted a big hole through a fleece blanket and my down sleeping bag! That was really dumb.

So what do I look forward to this season? Sitting around shelling pecans and the dried beans I grew last summer...getting invited to multiple oyster roasts on the same night...lying on the ground in the sun...conceiving brilliant plans...bumming lemons off people with lemon trees, those delicious sweet herbaceous-tasting thin-skinned Meyer lemons that I never knew the pleasures of until I came to Bluffton...and other citrus too—grapefruits, oranges, tangerines, clementines, satsumas and especially kumquats.

It seems like I can count back my winters by the signature hot beverages I created and carried around in a thermos. One year it was Special Brew: pressed apple juice I bought at Cahill's, then made into mulled cider on the stove with cinnamon sticks, cloves, bay leaves, allspice and citrus, plus a nip of brandy. The next year it was the Remedy: local lemons made into a tea with honey, cayenne pepper and bourbon. Then it was Life Everlasting: a roadside herb much favored in Gullah tradition, steeped with lemon, honey and gin. After that came Chinese Medicine Juice: cubes of fresh peeled ginger boiled with limes, then I'd add honey and red pepper and rum. Any of these will warm your bones, cure what ails you, put a flush in your cheek and a spring in your step, and most importantly make you jolly. But this year I've sobered up and concocted a thick beverage of unsweetened cocoa powder, which I make into a paste with water, then lace with cinnamon, nutmeg, chili pepper, vanilla, a little bit of sugar, and a dash of salt and cream.

The first part of winter is for eating, drinking and being merry; the second part for hunkering down to hard work. But in the Lowcountry there's no true hibernation. Something's always happening, in the forest and on the river—squirrels racing around in the treetops, wrens flitting low to the ground, dolphins blowing and thrashing, deer in the meadows and eagles returned to the nest, a violent splash! as some waterfowl dives kamikaze-style before floating serenely as though nothing unusual had happened. Just another dip in frigid saltwater.

Today it was 72° and I went down to the dock for a swim. The ducks and terns were surprised to see me. After I took that icy plunge and dashed like mad for the ladder, and as I was standing on the dock panting and feeling the burn, and while the golden sun rained down on the marsh grass and on me and the aftershock of cold water surged through my body like a drug, and just before I jumped in again, that's when I thought yes! baby's bathwater is one thing... But right now I'm happy winter is here.