"Old Man January" as I call him is now upon us. Except for Scorpio, most of my planets are in Capricorn, but I still don't like winter that much. The name January comes from the early Roman days when the month was named for the god Janus, who ruled doors and portals, beginnings and endings. He had two faces, one looking forward and one backward.

So in January, we look to the past year now gone and the new year ahead. We make New Year's resolutions. I don't try to do this anymore. You can't change an old fox set in her ways.

My main joy in winter is sitting in front of a fireplace. The other night, I fell asleep on the sofa beside it while watching TV, our evening's entertainment. I woke up about 1 a.m. and felt the folded edge of a velvety quilt tucked neatly under my chin. Too neat for the way I would have folded it. The only one who could have done this is my husband Jeff, my not-so-secret Santa.

The end of the sofa is my own snug, peaceful little corner of the world. The arm-piece is ripped and threadbare. I've refused new replacement sofas, because on this sofa I can be myself. It was purchased at Emmert's Auction a few years ago and must have started its life in a realtor's showroom. There are no forgiving protective pieces (whatever they're called) on the arms for the mishaps of humans. Tipping a cup of tea over at midnight, for example, or spilling paint from trying to work on it in the wee hours.

It would never pass my mother's scrutiny, for one thing. There are two rose velvet, Victorian-style chairs still here that she bought at J. Conn Scott in Selbyville 65 years ago, and they are still pristine in spite of her portly cocker spaniel sleeping on them back then. She used to set him in a high chair at the dinner table decades ago. I was never allowed such privileges.

Looking back many decades, winters seemed to be snowier. One of my favorite treats back then was snow ice cream. My grandmother used to make it. I'd go out in the backyard and scoop up the snow, trying not to harvest any near recent footprints, sled tracks, or worse yet, dog tracks. Then my grandmother would add cream, sugar, vanilla, and maybe even eggs, and slosh it all around in a big bowl. It was delicious, and maybe it was the forerunner of my preference for vanilla ice cream over chocolate to this day. I don't know if I'd recommend it today, what with drones flying overhead, aliens and all!

Then there was sledding down the two hills in Milton. One spot was over by Goshen Methodist Church, landing you down by Wagamons Pond, where there was ice skating. I usually pulled my sled through town to the hill at the Lawsons’ house down by the water tower.

I manned an old-fashioned wooden sled, navigating it with its metal front piece. On the top of the hill and inside, on Marie Lawson's linoleum kitchen floor, were shining puddles of water from our galoshes. A big bottle of Karo syrup sometimes sat on the kitchen table, meant for feeding her family of five children a pancake breakfast. Sometimes I partook of this feast after spending the night at a sleepover.

Winter scarves and sweaters dried on the heaters, sending off wet woolen scents. Stacks of styrofoam cups waited for generous helpings of the hot chocolate warming on the stove. We warmed our hands by holding the cups, then picked up our now wetly warm mittens and went out for even more sledding 'til twilight. Here, kids were king!

Then there was New Year's Eve at the Milton fire hall or the local lodge, with maybe the Banjo Dusters strumming away. That was winter long ago in Milton, and I loved it!