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My Winter Wonderland

By Lucie Frost

It’s 67 degrees out, going up to 84 today in San Antonio. Do you know what that means? Boot weather. Winter is finally here.

I run to the closet and lace up my Steve Madden combat boots. They look like the skates I wore when I was 10, except in black. And they don’t have the toe stopper, of course. Or the wheels. But otherwise, just the same.

“Aren’t you going to be hot in those?” my husband, Rich, asked.


“It’s going up to 90 today.”

“No, it isn’t. I just checked. There’s a cold front,” I said.


“Yeah, it’s going down to 84.”

He rolled his eyes at me like I was crazy or something. But he’s from Upstate New York. What does he know about dressing standards in Texas?

Down here, there’s no white after Labor Day or before Easter. Flip flops come out in February, March at the latest. And you wear your winter wardrobe starting Nov. 1, no matter the temperature.

My youngest son just moved to Ohio for college. He only knows the Texas rules, so he’s in for a rude awakening. Here’s how our pre-college preparations went.

“Clark, we need to go buy you some clothes,” I said.

“Naw, I’m good.”

“No, really. There’s stuff you’ll need.”



“I’m good.”

“Seriously. You’re going to Ohio. You’ll need pants,” I said.

“Shorts are fine, Mom,” he said.

We went to see him in October for Parents' Weekend. He wanted to go shopping—for pants. It took all of my strength not to I-told-you-so him.

Rich complains that we don’t have seasons down here. He also complains about our gun laws, insane politicians and braggy mouths. He’s not wrong about those things, but he is wrong about when to wear sweaters. Not when there’s a chill in the air, but when it’s the eleventh month of the year. Geez, it’s not that complicated.

Rich has gotten accustomed to Texas, but without the birthright, he’ll never quite understand my passion. He likes to remind me how much everyone hates people from Texas.

“Why?” I asked.

“Well, let’s see,” he said. “You’re all Republicans and super-religious.”

“I’m liberal and fairly skeptical,” I said.

“Yeah, but in general, Texans are right-wing zealots.”

“Okay, is that it?” 

“Oh no, there’s lots more.”

“Like what?”

“The state slogan: ‘Don’t mess with Texas,’” he said.

“That isn’t a state slogan. It was an anti-littering campaign.”

“Well, it has become the slogan.⁠ Shall I continue?”

“No, I’m good.”

He has a million other beefs with Texans, like how we’re always talking about secession, how we have refrigerator magnets in the shape of the state, how so many of us are televangelists, how we always speak of the state as the biggest and best and how we don’t know how to drive in the rain.

Rich can say what he will about the state, but where did he choose to move? Texas. Where does he live? Texas. Where will he retire? Texas. Where will he probably die? Texas. This place has a certain draw. 

So lace up, Buster. It’s November.

—Lucie Frost 

Lucie Frost is a humor and satire writer living in Central Texas. She recently retired from a lifetime as a human resources/employment lawyer. Since her retirement, Lucie has been busy writing for humor publications, writing a book about post-retirement life and watching far too much trashy television. Sign up for her learnings-of-the-day at You can find her on all the socials: @lucieHfrost.

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