Affixed to the outside of one of the first floor windows of the house I grew up in is a Radio Shack-bought barometer. That barometer’s digital readout holds the revered spot on the center of the mantle above the fireplace of the living room. In the dead of winter in upstate New York, when the difference between -5 and -10 degrees Fahrenheit is negligible, the average person would be content just knowing it’s “damn cold.” My parents, born and raised in Barranquilla, Colombia, however, aren’t happy until they know the wind chill, barometric pressure, and current location of the jet stream.

The average yearly temperature of Barranquilla, according to Weatherbase.com, is 83 degrees. The average temperate of Binghamton, New York, on the other hand,is 46 degrees. But that number is misleading, since the barometer can dip as low as -10 during the months of January and February, when the average temperature is 23. I think the drastic difference in temperatures between the two places is why the weather, especially during the winter, is such a constant topic of discussion in the Gieseken family.

Winter is the arch enemy that lingers in the shadows, even during the summer months. My mother, who was a speech therapist before I was born, is essentially a stay-at-home meteorologist. The Weather Channel is her best friend, rain or shine, hail or snow. This woman, who cooks, cleans, and looks after my Dad and two cats, is the authority on the weather in the Northeastern part of the United States. She can track cold fronts better than the National Weather Service.

Growing up, my sister and I would eat breakfast and get ready for school with Good Morning America playing on the television. The news and feature segments, however, were just filler between weather reports. We would huddle around these debriefings like soldiers readying for conflict, with my mom making note of every snowflake or wind-chill degree below zero.

While Mom acted as the director for meteorological intelligence, my Dad would provide the weapons for war. I’m convinced that the people at L.L. Bean have a commissioned oil painting of my Dad sitting in a hooded fleece sweatshirt hanging somewhere at their Freeport, Maine headquarters. For as long as I can remember, Gore-tex isn’t just a material to keep us dry, it is a way of life. Shoes, boots, jackets, and coats weren’t worth their weight in salt if they weren’t fortified with Gore-tex.

When I went away to college to Syracuse, an hour north and a few feet more snow per winter than even Binghamton, my Dad sent me off with Gore-Tex gloves and boots, , thermal socks, scarves, and two sets of long underwear. Our friends at L.L. Bean provided me with a winter parka guaranteed to keep me warm to negative 30 below Fahrenheit. I referred to it as “the mattress,” because its layers of down feathers made it about six inches thick. Lay it on the ground and a family of four could sleep comfortably.

Even now, at the independent age of 28, I can feel my Dad’s presence whenever I buy outerwear. I currently own two pairs of shoes and a running jacket, none of which contain a thread of Gore-tex, and I have never worn any of these things without that fact flashing across my mind. When I call home, every conversation begins with the question, “What’s the temperature where you are?” The call usually ends with my mom prepping me on the week’s upcoming weather, and that I should do my laundry.