Recently, any of us that have spent time outside can sure relate to that Nat King Cole 'Jack Frost nipping at your nose' line in "The Christmas Song."

It must be that I'm getting older, because I don't remember being this cold, even though I grew up in central Montana, where the mercury plunged into negative territory frequently, with the added bonus of windchill.

Yep, no matter what we wore, it seemed that the wind would bite right through it, as if its appetite for warm flesh knew no bounds.

I'm sure my flesh was tougher then - can we get physically thin-skinned as we age? Maybe it's all in my mind ... along with everything else these days.

Growing up, I'd often do chores with my layers on, my Dickies overalls, a couple cotton layers and the best long johns a few dollars could buy, in an attempt to keep my extremities from pondering frostbite mutiny.

Feeding hay to our cattle was the main job during this time of year, and the daily task of loading up and distributing it to our herd in the pastures could be an arduous chore if we were fighting a few feet of snow.

The cattle always seemed to be happy to see us. I always tried to interpret each sound they'd make, such as, "Wow, where you been? I'm starving" or "You travel all this way to feed me and you bring me LIGHT alfalfa?" or "Those Dickies are not your color, no matter what anyone else is telling you."

Their loud, guttural moos would emit columns of steam from deep within, especially on the chilliest days. It was quite a sight: Steam, hay and cow pies ... doesn't get much better than that ... except for when I could actually feel my toes ...

But even then I think I'd take a few feet of snow and reasonable temps over a negative reading on the ol' Hires Root Beer thermometer on the side of the shop.

The only saving grace of the whole experience for me was that my hay fever seemed to subside during the winter months, so cutting and feeding hay didn't seem to give me the congestion and junky buildup in my throat it did during the warmer months.

You gotta celebrate the small victories.

And even though the windchill factor reached into the 100-minus region here and there, I don't remember being too concerned about it.

Not anymore. The bitter wake up call that has been felt across faces across the nation recently gave its all here in North Idaho.

I also grew up with block heaters (plug-in warmers for the engine's antifreeze) and I always heard the stories of my ancestors lighting a pan of diesel fuel on fire and sliding it under the engine of a vehicle they were soon to try and start.

Levitating my body over a flaming diesel fuel pan to stay warm would be a little too sooty and smelly, so save for inventing a block heater to keep our innards toasty, I can only offer one piece of advice:

Hold on to those warm thoughts!

You can attempt to reach a layered-up Jerry Hitchcock at 664-8176, Ext. 2017, via email at [email protected] or on Twitter at HitchTheWriter.