I have, actually, always loved winter. My mother used to stuff us into our snowsuits, tie scarves around our necks up over our noses, put snow boots and mittens on us, and shove us out the door to “play”. Years later, I had brothers and sisters to play with, making snow forts (and snowballs) and snow angels, and also dragging our sleds and skis a block and a half from home to slide down the hill and trudge back up again until we couldn’t feel our feet or fingers.
I don’t know how much help I was, but I enjoyed moving snow.
Living in a basement house, the thick layer of snow on the roof did provide a little extra insulation.
No coffee during childhood, but mugs of hot, chocolate Ovaltine. As we got older, we walked (in our ice skates — no warming house) four blocks to the town skating rink. In spite of my weak ankles, I did manage to turn corners and skate backwards. Nothing any fancier. I think I twisted my ankles, trying to not poke the ends of the blades into my hind side whenever I fell backwards. Frequently.