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January 26, 2005
THE WINTER OF MY DISCONTENT
I grew up in Minnesota. Throughout my childhood, winter began around October 15, when temperatures began dropping below freezing at night; the first snowstorm of the year always hit before Thanksgiving, and by December 1 you were pretty much guaranteed that you could count on your fingers the number of times the temperatures would climb above freezing between then and April 1. In most years, we would have a stretch of at least a week -- sometimes even longer -- where the temperatures wouldn't get above zero degrees Farenheit.
And we loved it. The great thing about childhood is that you have nothing to compare it to yet; we couldn't miss milder winters because we didn't know there was such a thing. Well, we knew that other parts of the country would shiver just reading about the high temperature in Minneapolis, and that non-Minnesotans thought we were crazy. But we just laughed and adopted the cold as part of our identity.
We were Minnesotans, which means we liked the cold; we liked hockey, we liked ice fishing, we liked walking to school when it was seven degrees outside (7? Hey, that's above zero, ya wuss. Put a hat on and get yer ass out here.). In high school, my best friend used to wake up ten minutes before the bus came to the corner; he'd jump into the shower, quick wash up, get dressed, and sprint to the bus stop still damp from the shower... in winter, by the time he got to the bus there'd be ice in his hair.
We thought nothing of heading to the outdoor rink to play hockey even when it was below zero; our parents had to drag us inside for supper. We didn't worry if the car would start in the morning, because we just plugged in the engine block heater before heading to bed. (When outsiders showed up and didn't understand why we plugged our cars in, we just chuckled at their apparent naivete.) Winter meant snow forts, snowball fights, snot that froze in your nose, and more hockey. Winter made me Minnesotan.
I mention all this because I've been pondering this week how I could ever have loved winter. This is my eleventh winter away from my hometown (I moved ten years ago, but right before winter -- so it's the beginning of my eleventh year away), and though I live in the north once again, the New York City area doesn't have winters nearly as harsh. Whether due to age or acclimation, however, my tolerance for even these less intense seasons has plummeted.
Instead of hockey, snow fights and ice fishing, now winter means having to dig my car out of its parking spot, my bad knee aching and waking me up at night, and that it's going to take me twice as long to get to work, thanks to the cowards on the road who see one snow flurry and immediately clutch the steering wheel in a death grip while slowing to 10 mph. (There should be special levels of hell reserved for people who drive overly cautiously during precipitation. They cause as many acccidents as the ones who drive overly aggressively.)
In the past week, we've had single digit temperatures with windchills around -20, then a blizzard that dropped a foot of snow on us, then a one day "warming trend" where it got up to 30 degrees, and tonight we're back to the below zero windchills. My ImissFloridometer is screeching off the charts. And one more childhood memory is rendered thoroughly incomprehensible.
