I have made a resolution this fall as winter weather approaches, to not complain about how cold it gets here. I have lived in Nebraska for 18 years now, and even with the assumption of global warming, I don’t foresee any noticeable comfort change between the months of November and March.

I’m sure it was just as cold in the time of statehood when the pioneers came through, if not worse, since they didn’t have the luxury of penciling in GoreTex or a remote control car starter as one of their base components of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. Since they somehow saw fit to brave the elements and hunkered down here on the frigid prairie, I figure my perspective might need to be adjusted.

Unlike a bad diet, which leaves you craving something you can’t have, I plan to take a different approach. Call it the Rose Among Thorns regimen.

When my dad retired, he and mom started growing roses as a hobby. One of the first things we would do together when I returned home for a visit was to take a walking tour of the rose garden. They would show me the new varieties or the offshoots or the unusual colors that emerged, or the antique roses they were trying to cultivate. It was a very satisfying experience.

At its peak there must have been a couple hundred plants scattered through the property. And out of all those rose bushes, there was never any mention of how many and how difficult those pesky thorns were to deal with. If you were to stop and try to count, I would guess thorns on an average rose bush out number the actual flower bud a hundred to one, if not more.

And such is my perspective on winter.

Just as I could curse the Thorns, I can just as easily admire the Roses. I can damn the Wind and Snow, or I can find a way to absorb its beauty.