The damp of the January morning (on Jan. 14) drove straight to the bone and clung like steel traps, much colder than the dry snow and sub-freezing temperatures I’d left behind near Saratoga Springs, N.Y., the day before.
But then, that’s the way it’s always been down South – a cold that courses your body; one that numbs the toes and finger tips, tortures any exposed surfaces and makes the sway of an errant limb feel like the lash of an angry whip. I know the pain of Southern cold ever so well: I grew up in Shreveport, La., just about 200 miles east of where I was creeping Indian style through the undergrowth of Claiborne County. […]