The Weaponry of Winter

Today is a mild day. It is 32 degrees F, nothing is falling from the gray sky and nothing is blowing away. It is muddy, but people who live in colder climes come prepared with mops, brooms, dust busters, and sweepers. They are a part of the weaponry of winter.

If you live where the snow flies and the wind blows, you know what I mean. We do not experience winter—we fight it.  

I lived in the South for thirteen years and then moved home to Indiana. We moved in on a warmish, rainy December 31^st. I was lulled into a false sense of security. A month later, a new flag blew off of its stand. It was red with flowers for Valentine’s Day. We never found a thread of it. The flag stand now has a rubber gasket. It means my flags can only be shredded in the wind and I might get to them before the wind devils come.

It is a love/hate relationship.  I worked with a man from Connecticut when I was down South. I opened a Christmas card with a picture of a small house in the snow, surrounded by a gray sky. In unison, we both went, “Awww,” as we temporarily missed home. Outside, the sun was shining; the weather was warm. But inside our hearts, there was snow.

When I was a child, my grandparents had a wood stove. Everyone has seen the pictures of old men gathered around such a black welcoming sight. What is good for the artist, putting everyone in one scene, is a necessity for flesh and blood. Country houses are lathe and plaster with clapboard. They lack insulation. Instead, you get the stoves’ arc of warmth. It is a fitting bit of armor. You shake down the ashes, refill its wrought iron insides and you are rewarded with heat — blessed, welcome heat that allows you to lose twenty inches of puffer coat and knit scarf, gloves, boots, and your hood or hat. Keep your sweater: the arc of heat is much coveted and you may have to share it.

When I was four, our furnace quit. My father wrapped us in blankets like three little tacos, gathered us near an electric oven, and gave us dry cereal. It is the only time I can remember being allowed to eat cereal out of the box, and it was an exciting battle over Old Man Winter. Who knew that oven coils glow red? It was not something I had ever been close enough to observe. In our drafty, heatless house, we were winning.

Going out into the weather is a separate challenge. My husband called me from his office, once, to say that under no circumstances was I to leave the house. And I stayed in until he called from the interstate where his car had stalled. I trudged to the back yard through knee deep snow to carry concrete blocks around, to put them in my trunk for traction. I gathered food, blankets, and a snow shovel, and went out and got him.

We survived the historic blizzard of ’78. My husband parked our cars at the end of our driveway, but they froze. The airport where he worked needed him, so they sent the police chief out. Neighbors will brave even the deepest snow to find out why there was a police car at your house, laying on its siren. After that, he brought the batteries in at night. We put an old, heavy wool blanket over the front door, which sprang an air leak in the cold.

We moved from there to a house that was built in 1945. It was insulated, but drafty. I insulated the electrical outlets, the extra upstairs air conditioner, and the drafty windows. I used a light bulb on the upstairs bathtub pipes in winter. I accessed them through a port in my closet. It was a pretty room, but come winter, décor took a back seat to weather and the cord stretched across the room to the pipes. When we moved, I meant to leave the custom-made quilt that covered the air conditioner in winter. I remarked one sunny southern day that I hoped the new owner had liked the quilt. My daughter hung her head and admitted that she had brought it with her as a memento of Indiana winters.

I did once try to battle frigid temperatures without strictly needing to. It was Christmas Eve, 1982. My youngest child was four. She told me that afternoon that she had secretly told Santa that she wanted a Strawberry Kisses Strawberry Shortcake doll so she would know if he was real. There is panic and there is Stupid Panic. I was in Stupid Panic. I called and found the doll at a toy store that was still open. I went out in a minus forty chill factor to get that doll. But in my rush, I parked my car facing the wind. It’s a rookie error. The car wouldn’t start. I called my husband, who came, and who did not say, “You WHAT!?!” It’s a part of the war. You never accuse another soldier of stupidity. It’s the weather you are fighting, not each other. He started my car. By that time, the doll’s stinky kisses had given me a migraine.

It is telling that neither of my two daughters choose Christmas as their favorite holiday. And don’t be surprised if your Northern friends laugh when you ask if they have romantic plans for Valentine’s Day. February is hope-we-don’t-freeze month. We’ll make kissy face next summer.