Our recent cold weather and skirmishes with snow remind me why I confined the freezing temperatures of Ohio, Missouri, Pennsylvania and North Carolina to my youth.

The soothsayers were right. “Life begins at 40,” but 40 degrees Fahrenheit.

In fact, these Winter Olympics on the tube every afternoon and night are so filled with snow and cold and the high-definition breaths of Italian altitude that I am wearing down most all day long. This exact moment, I am seated next to my Milwaukee Road caboose stove, dry Doug fir a-blazing, wearing my buddy Boodie’s 1979 rust-and-pale, yellow-colored Alpine Designs down jacket, made in Denver, city of my warm weathered summer birth.

My hands are covered in scarlet-and-gray knit gloves. The glove wrists are highlighted in red letters: Ohio State Buckeyes. The glove fingertips are cut out like little puppets so I can type in the cold and also play my clarinet later when the Jehovah’s come over.

At least I hope they come over. It’s about the only time my caboose smells good. I like to play that song by Jimi Hendrix, “All Along the Watchtower” when they knock on the door.

I love all the religions, but only the parts I agree with. Religions are like fraternities and sororities. Once you join, it is tough to change. Once you join, you better have time to make potato salad. Once you join, you better learn to get up early to clean and be ready in case any guests are coming over.

My mother used to really irritate my dad when he had the car loaded, engine running, ready to head west from Columbus, Ohio to Jackson, Miss. for our annual summer vacation. Mother would always be holding us up with her vacuuming.

“Come in and drink your juice kids. As soon as the house is clean, we can leave.”

Mother always wanted to come back to a clean house. Dad always wanted to come back and see how big the tomatoes were in his garden.

So what does this have to do with religion?

Don’t you remember?

Your parents are your first religion.

Dad was a southern Baptist. Mom was a southern Presbyterian. We kids avoided being full-time Baptists when mom told dad that he would have to take us to church every Wednesday and Sunday if he wanted us to carry on his family’s tradition.

In the ‘50s and ‘60s we three kids were finally communioned and confirmed as Official Northern Presbyterians, or ONP’s, on the playground.

One of the neat things about the 13 weeks we catechismed on Saturday mornings at the church was being able to study all the other religions. We had field trips to synagogues, temples, churches, tabernacles and trailers to learn about Judaism, Islam, Catholicism, Mormonism, Buddhism, Christianity in all its varieties, and White Castle. Now there is a religion.

All of that study made me realize that I did not agree with any one group, but that I did see similarities in all of them.

In fact, I was not really wanting to join what had been selected for me by mom, but I knew better than to resist and miss the Wednesday Night Potlucks where mother served her famous baked beans.

What a gas. Van Camps’ Beans baked slowly in a little brown sugar. An empty casserole dish every Wednesday. I always avoided the limp bacon mom had arranged on the top. Someone else could eat those.

So, here it is, still cold. The Olympics are still going and going and going. How many more stories do we need to hear about struggling athletes with $120,000 worth of skis that cost $8,000 to ship on an airplane?

I’m ready for baseball.

As one Seattle P-I sports writer said last week, “The sweetest sentence in the English language is uttered in the spring: Pitchers and catchers report.” Soon all the other ballplayers will join up and be spring bopping about ball fields like Atlanta’s Cracker Jack Stadium, Texas’ Surprise Stadium, Tampa Bay’s Progress Energy Park, Detroit’s Joker Merchant Stadium and a host of other parks, stadiums, fields and complexes.

For me, the baseball fields of America are our churches. These are our tabernacles of worship. These are our vortexes in Sedona or our Bridal Falls at Yosemite.

As we say in my church: “Beisbol been berrily, berrily good to me.”

Play ball!

Jim’s columns are archived at www.southwhidbeyrecord.com.