Twenty-one degrees. So announced the weather station. Not the first thing I want to hear in the morning. Any morning.

I know. I know. It is mid-December. It was due to happen, maybe even overdue. I know winter is going to do its thing. It’s just that we’ve had a relatively easy season up until now and I was hoping it would continue — maybe go as far as January Thaw and from there, we can see spring.

But it’s not to be. Once again, the only way around winter is straight through it. The Polar Express has arrived and with it, the winds that cut you in half.

But I remind myself that things could be worse for me. I no longer have to get bundled up like an Inuit from the tundra and head off for work. I can put the water on for coffee, turn the furnace up or build a fire, and snuggle up with my favorite wool throw while waiting for the heat to come up and the kettle to whistle.

And I don’t even have to get dressed as used to be the routine. Now, half of America lounges around in their pjs all morning. I never saw my grandmother in her flannel nightgown as she went about getting the wood stoves roaring. Used to be, you got up, you got dressed.

As a kid on the farm, I too wore long flannel nightgowns. My grandmother made them on her 1896 Singer “Sphinx” model treadle sewing machine housed in a beautiful oak cabinet. My great-grandmother, Julianne, had originally owned it. I learned how to sew on that machine. It was the prettiest of the Singer models, with its design of an Egyptian sphinx in gold.

I never did get on friendly terms, over the years, with the newfangled electric machines. We just never got along. The old treadle machines had a rhythm to them that was calming. For decades after the farm, when using electric machines, I would think fondly of Grammie’s Sphinx.

Then, a few years ago, I was thumbing through Uncle Henry’s and spotted an ad selling that very model. And it was just down the road in Rockland. I ran to the phone to cajole my brother to take me down in his truck. It was only a hundred dollars and came with its original manual and a “crazy-box” — an intricate wooden box holding all the original attachments. There was one for every stitch and use you can think of, from sewing those tiny little seams they used to decorate baby clothes and nightgowns with to making button holes. There was also a vintage two-tiered wicker sewing basket. Both the crazy box and sewing basket were each selling for $100 on eBay at the time.

They proudly stand in my living room, topped with a Victorian lamp, some crystal pieces and family photos. I haven’t done much sewing for a few years.

Like on the farm, come winters, I would dig out my long flannel nightgowns and settle down to ride out the long winters. The gowns would ride up to my knees at night, leaving my legs cold.

So some years ago, I switched over to flannel pajamas. Women’s clothes were no longer cut on the bias like in the ’40-’50s, which made clothing “behave.” Thing was, even if I bought them several sizes too big, they’d shrink to child-size after the first wash/dry. Cotton flannels were no longer pre-shrunk and the seams were a simple one line of stitching rather than the French seams, so not only did they shrink, the seams would come apart early on.

Then, one night while heading to bed, I discovered I had forgotten to put the last wash, the one with all my pjs, in the dryer. Now what?

I poked around in the dresser and came upon a long, black velveteen skirt that my daughter had given me and further rummaging uncovered an indigo-blue velveteen, long-sleeved blouse. Hmmm. Perfect?

And it was. Also, the skirt stayed put at my ankles, leaving only my feet to get cold. So I got a pair of over-sized wool socks, dubbed them “bed-socks” and climbed into bed for a long winter’s nap, cocooned in my duck-down comforter.

I now have three sets of velveteen skirts and blouses and my bed-socks are Alpaca. These “pjs” have an added bonus: I can lounge around in the morning and if someone comes to the house, I am “dressed,” as they are actually “day-clothes.”

Bring it on, Winter.

Marion Tucker-Honeycutt, an award-winning columnist, is a Maine native and graduate of Belfast schools. She now lives in Morrill.