You think I would learn

You'd honestly think that I would learn.
September is not traditionally a frigid month in Nebraska. It's a time of changing seasons: the cottonwoods, old creaking, giant trees, begin to change their leaves the bright green waving pieces turning brown and yellow before falling to the ground. The sea of green that was prevalent the entire summer suddenly becomes dotted with bright red bloodspots as the sumac plants shed their normally muted green leaves for the bright red suit of autumn. The air chills but not by much; every other day is still a good hay day or at least that's what my dad says.
Which is why, when the temperature suddenly dropped in the first few weeks of September, I refused to believe it.
Dad and I had been going out to the calving pasture every morning for the past few weeks to tag calves and run out pairs. This particular morning, I watched my dad dig out his winter coveralls, put on two layers of coats and his heavy boots. My dad usually digs out his coveralls as soon as the temp gauge hits 60 degrees. I usually don't dig mine out until much later. In fact, we tease him that he's just silly for wanting to put on his coveralls in the middle of summer.
So while the morning looked like another summer day, the gauge in the window said differently: a measly 36 degrees to start out the morning, and cloudy to boot.
Dad shrugged into his layers upon layers of clothes and I just put on a heavy coat, sweatshirt and my ball cap, chalking the coveralls up to my dad's overdeveloped sense of cold. I didn't bother to look at the temperature in the window myself.
You'd honestly think I would learn.
The clouds hung low and ominous over the green Nebraska prairie as a fine mist dripped onto everything. Beads hung on the tall grasses, Trees collected raindrops like fine diamonds, holding them on thin leaves until they grew too numerous for them to keep to themselves and they spilled from the sky in a shower of sparkles onto the gray earth below.
As soon as we pulled the four-wheelers out of the shop I knew I'd made a terrible mistake. The slight northern breeze felt like a hurricane force gale when combined with the self-created wind of the four-wheeler. I could already feel the sharp singing of the windburn begin on my cheeks. The thin summer gloves I'd decided would be enough for my fingers let every needle-like finger of wind through, numbing my hands until I couldn't feel my thumb anymore. But my pride, the same pride that made me ride on the sled behind the tractor during a winter storm without ever admitting to my dad how cold I was, kept me from running back to the house for more clothes.
I glanced at my dad from beneath the layers of hoods that I, thankfully, had conceded to wear. He looked cozy in his coveralls.
You'd honestly think I would learn.
We sorted off one pair. I watched, shivering as my dad searched through the dozens of little red tags in his pocket for the correct one. With a sinking heart, I watched him put ALL of the tags back in his pocket, look up, and say, "I'll have to run back and make one."
So there I sat, shivering in my Carhartt coat, one sweatshirt and summer gloves, holding myself as close to the warm four-wheeler as I could, cursing my stupidity only to have the words snatched away by that bone-chilling northern wind.
I tried to convince myself that it wasn't that bad. But mind over matter doesn't work on that north wind; it blows and howls without a care for anyone that stands in it's way, no matter how many blustery words they blow back at it.
If only I'd taken my dad at his word and put on my coveralls. After so many years he knows when it's cold out, really cold, coveralls cold.
You'd honestly think I would learn.