I struggled out from beneath the covers, flannel sheets, fleece blanket with two comforters piled on top, felt the chill in the room and immediately headed for the wood stove.

Glancing at the front windows I noticed the frost crystals etched across their bottoms, intricate patterns of icy beauty, the sun glistening through the mathematical perfection of their geometry. So fascinating to look at if you could ignore the subzero temperatures which created them.

Opening the wood stove door, I stirred the bed of coals, watching them begin glowing a bright, cherry reddish orange. Placing two large chunks of firewood on them, opening the draft wide, tiny flames began licking at their edges, the hungry fire eager to consume them.

This winter with its bitter cold and snow beginning in November was a throwback to my youth when everyone expected deep snows, below-zero temperatures and sunless days.

Fortunately, we’ve enjoyed very moderate winters the last 10 years or so.

This weather awoke old, buried memories, flashing me back to the late 1960s, at camp with Pop, doing exactly what I’d just completed — stirring the wood stove coals, tossing on wood and practically hugging the barrel stove waiting for the fire to gain strength.

Bent over the stove, a chuckle escaped me. At home my brother and I would have been sitting on the floor furnace shivering, waiting for the gas flames to give off enough heat to warm us. Dad always turned the thermostat down to 55 degrees at night despite our pleadings to keep it at least 65. We’d learned at school it took more gas to reheat the house than it did to maintain the temperature.

Dad didn’t believe it and refused to change for a very obvious reason. Mom, Gary and I had to get out of bed before Dad in order to prepare for school. By then the house had warmed up when he arose 30 minutes later. It took us kids a while to figure this out and when we complained about the unfairness of our freezing while he lay snugly in bed, he merely grinned, ignoring our protests. In fact, he glued a stick across the top of the thermostat to prevent it from being adjusted above 70.

In subzero temperatures this meant some cold corners in our home. Mind you, this was when natural gas was rather inexpensive!

Pop arose when he heard me restocking the fire. We dressed quickly and peered out the frosted, front door window. The old Mail Pouch chewing tobacco thermometer showed -10 degrees. A foot of snow had fallen overnight and I threw on my coat and boots then dashed outside shoveling steps, porch and clearing the car off. By the time I’d finished Pop had bacon and eggs on the table and there’s simply no better breakfast in my mind.

After cleaning up we grabbed shotguns and hunted out behind the camp through knee-deep snow for grouse. After an hour of that futile nonsense we returned and changed clothes. Larry Barnes had plowed the driveway in our absence and Pop decided lunch at Tacks Inn would be appropriate.

Nothing unusual — winter weather, deep snow, we took it in stride.

But even back then when nasty winters were expected, a particularly brutal storm could grab your attention. In 1978 my wife and I spent Christmas Eve at her mother’s in Lafayette, across from the cemetery. We owned a VW Bug at the time and had it loaded with presents and our little Julie. After unloading the car we enjoyed a very nice dinner and sat around the wood stove enjoying the Christmas tree and talking.

Just before retiring for the night someone noticed it was snowing. That it was! When we awoke Christmas morning 3 feet of snow buried the landscape. Only the roof and windows of the VW were visible in the vast, white expanse stretching before our eyes.

Well, snow wasn’t about to delay opening presents or put a damper on our spirits so the blizzard was temporarily forgotten. Then a wonderful breakfast. By 11 a.m., however, the snow could no longer be ignored.

Jim, my brother-in-law, donned heavy clothes and started the snow blower, which luckily had been left in the garage. Fortunately, it was a more powerful model and looking out the front picture window we saw a huge white cloud of snow billowing up in the air. Every now and then we’d catch a glimpse of Jim inching along through the swirling flakes, a dim specter surrounded in a blizzard of his own making.

I opened the back door to shovel off the porch and found a wall of snow 3 feet high barring my exit. Kicking through that, it was then necessary to locate the shovel, which had blown over — no easy task — before beginning the back-breaking effort of shoveling. The temperature hovered in the teens, but the effort required for every shovelful soon had me sweating.

The driveway finished, Jim barged in the door. The poor guy looked like a snowman, completely covered in snow, and I mean every inch of him. His mustache and beard were frozen and his nose beet red. He was so stiff and cold we had to help him out of his clothes.

Yes, these days, we are experiencing an old-time winter, but soon this will be just a memory as well.