This was originally published in December 2008. "Asylum" will be posted this week.
Ah, winter! It’s de-lovely, isn’t it? Amidst a mild snowstorm by Midwest standards, a gazillion hexagonal ice crystals floating, flying and twisting, I view through my window the dissipation of color until all surroundings are absent of hue. I turn down my music and open the casement window. Virtually soundless. It is eerie, not in a sinister manner, but rather unearthly, as if the scope of what is happening is not the weather but visual acuity failing.
I am a winter enthusiast. Not a winter sports enthusiast, mind you. I have no inclination to be unnecessarily active during cold months. Skittering down the driveway for the newspaper and occasionally picking up frozen dog turds is the extent of my strenuous recreation. Gelid conditions aside, I am a committed Chicagoan. There is a perverse satisfaction that comes with surviving the Midwest winter every year, idiotic pride in our ability to maintain everyday life no matter the weather conditions. While other regions of the country shut down with a spray of snow or a speckling of ice on the roads, we act as if nothing is amiss, even during a blizzard. We drive, we walk, we work; occasionally, a reporter will interview a resident about the inclemency; they will be outdoors, of course. Amidst the violently blowing snow, the Chicagoan with snot icicles hanging from his mustache will say, “Yeah, it’s pretty bad.”
The cub reporter will ask, “Did you take any extra precautions?”
“Well, I put some kitty litter on the stairs ‘cuz last year Grandma slipped and broke her hip. And, I been starting up the cars ever so often to keep the motors warm.”
“What are your plans tomorrow?”
“Well, I have to work at 6 in the morning. After that, I’ll head to the bar, watch the game. Go Bears!”
Kids of the Midwest are similar in demeanor. I have watched children from out of town snivel and whine, “It’s soooo cold!” upon their arrival in our city. I fear they will amount to little in life. During the snowstorm of ’78-79, my family lived in a townhouse; they were nice then but are now considered the ghetto of Schaumburg. We had a very small, square, fenced-in backyard. My brother and I built an amazing snow fort, a labyrinth with tunnels and trenches, little areas dug out and covered and filled with an arsenal of snowballs. We stayed outside for hours without reprieve, frostbite started to chew at our skin, yet determined to create a stronghold in the suburbs, a fortress worthy of Marvel comic superheroes (we had decided long ago that DC Comics superheroes were sissies). When the sun set and the bitterness edged into our bones, we finally succumbed and retreated indoors. A bit of nourishment and some rest would serve us well before our envisioned battle the next day.
Around these parts, weather doesn’t matter. We are accustomed to the requirements of the season. We have unspoken rules. We migrate; we hibernate; we cover; we bundle. The lessening of exposure to ultraviolet illumination fades skin pigment, leaving some of our friends with a tone more pastel than we are accustomed. Perhaps we chubby up a bit from holiday treats and increased frequency of casual gatherings with the prerequisite of a pass-around dish. Some men grow facial hair, whereas some women are less inclined to shave their legs regularly, resulting in both sexes being stubbled. We sneeze and sniffle as our immune systems are overworked from the cold temperatures and celebratory soirees. That is the upper northern hemisphere from November until March: pasty, plump, shaggy, and symptomatic. It is our rogue’s gallery and we embrace it annually.
Tilting my head, I can see the fullness of the moon through the window. There is a comfort in cold, in dark, in silence. In this hush, I reflect upon the twelve months, what transpired, how I coped and empowered and weakened and settled and managed. As each Gregorian calendar year concludes, I am always astounded that I am still alive. It is not that I live dangerously; it’s not that I invite menace. Concert-going with the Hell’s Angels? Nope. Base jumping and cave diving? No, sirree. Scrumptious dinners of fugu and Death Cap fungi? C’mon now. That’s just silliness. Sometimes, trouble finds me (it’s true; ask around). Other times, illness attempts to strong-arm my emotional enthusiasm. Occasionally, I imperil myself with, shall we say, questionable choices; however, my days of internal thuggery are now limited. Still, in the still, the New Year brings amazement. “Good job, Deb,” I say. “You freakin’ survived another one. Well done.” It is an acknowledgment of perseverance without acquiescence and anticipation without expectation. As Albert Camus stated: “In the depths of winter I finally learned there was in me an invincible summer.” When I first read it, the quote stopped my breathing momentarily, as I analyzed simple words used with precision to create a flawless thought. Thus, with the close of each December, I settle in and gear up, preparing for another chance to be harmonious with others and yet indomitable in spirit.
My pensiveness is interrupted violently by snow plows. The scraping upon the pavement, coarse salt dumped randomly, scorching headlights slicing the darkness. Back to work and back to life. One cannot be wistful in a pothole.
