It’s dark out there. Blacker than the inside of a cow. From my hilltop perch in the frozen wastes (hyperbolically speaking, at least this December) of Minnesota, the sun skims a mere 20º above the horizon at its highest, a noticeably feeble display compared to the equinoxes (45º) and midsummer (70º). I enjoy the night, but like any other good thing, it can be taken too far, and 15 hours crosses that line garishly.
Is it the short days or the cold that deflates me? There are plenty of places that are both darker and warmer–Anchorage, Alaska pops amusingly to mind–but some thought experiments are not really worth putting to the practical test. Suffice it to say that the hibernating species have my utmost respect for having come up with an ass-kickingly brilliant solution–fast forwarding until spring.
The rest of us, however will wake up in darkness to December 21, the shortest day of the year. That this date is also reckoned as the first day of winter is the legacy of meteorologists, who arbitrarily carve the year into four equal seasons exactly three months long. If only the Minnesotan winter could be so neatly contained! Astronomically, however, the worst is already over. Tomorrow will be longer.
Roman pagans celebrated a feast fancifully called dies natalis solis invicti, or “birthday of the unconquered sun.” All hail it, but don’t forget the SPF.
