Shelter from the Cold

I understand why bears hibernate and birds fly south; why groundhogs won’t emerge from their burrows. It is winter and I want to wrap myself inside my cocoon of a quilt, laze warmly on my red and cream buffalo plaid sofa and wait until I see crocuses from my window.

 

My northern friends and family would accuse me of having become soft during these years I have lived in the sultry south. Years ago I would have laughed at those who complain of cold when the temperatures dip below 35 degrees. But Yankee-weather-tolerance-superiority is something I no longer need to claim for my self-esteem. I’ve paid my dues. I lived in New England for over 40 years. I shoveled snow until my back stiffened. I scraped ice from car windshields until my chapped fingers split open, even through my gloves. My teeth chattered. My body shivered uncontrollably. My toes turned white. I said Hail Marys before inserting my key into the ignition with faith and hope that the Blessed Mother, Ever Virgin would jump start my freezing and most assuredly dead battery into resurrected operation. I worked at a job for 8 years that required I be out 3 to 4 nights a week, locking up the church auditorium in winter’s dark, alone. I commuted to Cambridge from Rhode Island for three years; the last leg of the trek involved a 20 minute walk from Harvard Square’s subway station to the divinity school. Some days the wind whipped in from the Charles River and dropped the wind chill factor to below zero. I ducked into the Law School lobby along the way and felt the relief of warmth just long enough to continue on. The last year of my program Boston broke their 100 year-old record for snowfall at 96 inches for the season. So, in addition to the cold I trudged through slush and snow and freezing rain that assaults one’s face like little shots from a pellet gun.

 

Southerners are stereotypically depicted as moving very slowly, while their northern counterparts rush about their days almost running, barely taking the time to notice their surroundings. One of the first things a relocated northerner must learn when they arrive in the South is to be patient. No one is in a  hurry, especially store cashiers and DMV employees. My theory is that these habits have culturally evolved through centuries of adaptation to the heat or the cold, respectively. Heat indices of 100 degrees or more for much of the summer tend to slow one down. And temperatures below 45 for as many months create the need to run from the cold and move from one place to another as quickly as possible.

 

When I was a child, I rubbed beeswax on the runners of my sled for the next downhill thrill. I laced up my ice skates and hoped that my ankles would not fail me as I attempted to glide across the ice. I made snowmen and snow forts, engaged in snowball fights with my brothers, and went through pairs and pairs of wet mittens before reluctantly going inside to cocoa and toast. I pulled icicles from tree branches and licked them like popsicles. I stood in the yard while the snow fell and stuck my tongue out to catch the flakes. It took five minutes to get dressed just to go outside. Now, I look suspiciously at those who actually choose to skate, to ski, to toboggan. My adult self considers the phrases “winter sport,” and “winter fun,” to be oxymoronic.

 

So, yes, I’ll go to work. I’ll walk the cobblestone sidewalks of Charleston wrapped up in gloves and scarves. I’ll pull out my cashmere sweaters from the cedar and my tights from the back of the drawer, but don’t ask me to go out when I don’t have to; not until the crocuses lift their little heads up from the earth will I lift mine. I’ve given up my cold-weather false bravado for the comfort of an old quilt and a red and cream colored sofa.