In the midst of a cold snap, a large storm with wind chills hovering between minus 15 and minus 30, increases the intensity of wind chill and frostbite. So much depends on Lake Ontario, the 104 corridor, the Southern Tier and where one happens to be standing in any given area. It feels familiar. I have been here before.
Relatively mild winters in recent years have left me out of practice. Brutal wind on my face reminds me. The temperatures dip dangerously low, something stirs within me and I quickly resume old patterns of winter dressing. This is salt and memory. I hear family voices; “dress in layers”, and “watch out for black ice”.
I instinctively layer up to face outdoors. I start with undergarments, followed by a thin cotton camisole fitting snugly over hips and stomach. I swaddle. I add another stretchy, long sleeved cotton shirt which fits over the camisole and then on top of this I slip on a thinly padded vest. On top of these three pieces, I wrap up in my outside coat. I fold a thick, large woolen scarf around my neck; thick and long enough to completely cover my neck and chest area but not too thick so that it can’t be tied in some semblance of a knot. Since I am not going to be outside for too long, I only wear a pair of jeans with thick woolen socks and my boots which barely zip themselves over the socks. Everything I’m wearing is black or navy blue, except for the coat which is silver.
I look down at my jeans. In the winter I wear boot cut jeans. I like the fit and they do exactly what they are named for. They fit cleanly over the edge of boots. At the end of the day there will be a thick white ring of salt around the bottom of the legs. On top of the thighs of the jeans, there will be patches of smudged salt and snow spray which come from leaning up against the car door when squeezing out of a tight parking space. Salt. Everywhere. I know that if it is cold enough, even copious amounts of salt will not do much to melt black ice. Slow down. Lift one’s foot off the pedal and steer into a spin. My inner voice checks off a lifetime of warnings. Watch for hungry deer.
I tested myself last night when the wind chill dipped to below minus 20 and the neighborhood appeared silent and iced and glittery in the dry air. I’d been in the house for almost 48 hours. I donned a thick pair of woolen socks and I wondered how good they really are. I wanted to experience that startling cold again, to awaken the feeling of the past.
In the dark, I walk the length of the driveway to the mailbox with no shoes; only these socks. I need to go off the grid; out and away from the sanctuary and warmth and light of the house. I gasp as the air hits my face. I am returned to winters in high school during the blizzard of 1977. Western New York was paralyzed with ice and snow and my parents hired local college boys to shovel the weighty white mounds off the roof of our house. That winter my brother and I stood on the picnic table in the backyard and fell with outstretched arms, backwards off of it into the deep snow with fearless abandon. We disappeared into iced white fluff.; caught safely by frozen marshmallow. We missed two weeks of school because the water pipes in the school burst. We dressed in front of the kitchen oven. Mom purchased electric blankets for each family member.
One Sunday morning, I did not wear a hat and strode confidently down the hill to the local church on a day with minus 20 degrees and a ridiculous wind chill. I left halfway through the service to head home. I was engulfed in nausea; swimming, swirling black dots; shimmering waves and completely dizzy. The snow blinded me. I do not know how I got back home, up the long curving hill. Later, wrapped up in my warm bed, I smelled succulent barbequed beef roast with potatoes and carrots and gravy. My family ate Sunday dinner without me. I lay sick from cold.
In the driveway I am stunned by the acidity of black cold. Yes. I’ve got this. But only briefly. I cannot shelter out here too long. I cannot sustain myself. I pad to the edge of the yard, pry open the mailbox door, grab the mail and scurry back into the garage where I shake off the socks and head into the kitchen. My feet are dry. These are good socks.
690 Saint Paul 