Growing up in western New York meant embracing the cold, but not necessarily defeating it. As a kid, I shoveled snow, built snow forts, ice-skated … and always had cold hands.
While my winter gloves were thick, ballooned with insulation and advertised as waterproof, they were perpetually wet. And they never seemed to dry. I can still recall yanking on a pair in the morning and plunging my fingers into five sodden little pockets of snowmelt from the day prior. And good luck holding anything but a snow shovel with them.
