Why I gave up Midwest winters (Part 3 of 3)

Seeing that winter is alive and kicking in the cooler climes across the plains and Great Lakes region, and another arctic blast is about to descend on Tennessee, I thought I’d end my trilogy of Winter Woe.  Here are two quick tales that finally quickened my spirit to move southward.

1) February of 1980, I’m living in Skokie, one of the first suburbs north of Chicago: We got socked with another massive blizzard and subsequent deep freeze.  It’s bad enough that the cramped city streets are further impeded by six to eight-foot-high gray walls (the Winter Wonderland effect turns a dingy yuck “color” for months) that line both sides of every thoroughfare…but it’s that fact that everything becomes so brittle from the sub-artic conditions that makes it nearly unbearable at times.

Take this particular morning when I went out for the twenty-minute ritual of warming-up and scraping the car.  This isn’t occasional; it’s every freaking day for months on end.  I had to load some equipment into the back of my stylish metallic brown AMC Hornet Hatchback. You don’t see these anymore.  They were sort of sawed-off versions of station wagons. Of course, you don’t see many family wagons anymore either (oh, for the days of Clark Griswold and his Family Truckster!). 

As I crunched out to the Brown Bomber, as it was affectionately dubbed, it seemed the air was even more biting than was the norm.  The thermometer outside my kitchen window had no red in it at all—the mercury had simply disappeared beneath the twenty degree below bottom marker. I put my key in the back hatch door, hearing the tiniest of tinklings as loose ice shards broke free from around the tumbler. When I pulled the handle and lifted the door, there was a sudden *snap* and the right hinge split.  Within a millisecond, not being able to bear all the weight on its own, the left hinge cracked and broke away.  Before I could say “Cranberry Cornucopia!” the entire one-hundred pound door was plummeting towards my feet.  Lurching both boots backwards, I started to slide on the icy pavement, and fell awkwardly forward onto the displaced fragment, bouncing first off the bumper, then dropping further onto the street.  It all happened at hummingbird speed.  One of those experiences that flashes so suddenly and unexpectedly that you find yourself in the aftermath before even knowing what occurred. Would’ve made a viral-worthy Youtube clip if anyone had been fortunate enough to be filming me at that precise moment.

Because it was so cold, I couldn’t tell if I was hurt or not.  Fortunately, no lacerations or bone damage—just a few bruises that manifested themselves in the coming days. The real pain came when I called the American Motors dealership to find out about when I could get a replacement door and hinges.  On the other end of the line the mechanic at the shop was laughing, saying, “Buddy, you are shit outta luck.  You are the seventeenth person today that has phoned-in with the same stupid problem.”

So, while muttering execrations against AMC and Detroit automakers in general, and lumping in the forces of nature for good measure, I spent an hour trying to rig some sort of temporary translucent covering out of cleaner bags and cardboard.  I’ll let you in a little secret, too: neither electrical nor duct tape holds particularly well to frozen metal.  So, several times each day for the next five weeks, I had to re-attach all variations of make-shift protection to the back of my rambler.  Often it would simply rip off and flap furiously while driving on the Edens Expressway, or detach altogether, and I would need to construct a new one from scratch.  Sometimes I was so pissed that I would drive the whole day with the back wide open.

It wasn’t about to get any warmer during that time either, and I can assure you that thin plastic does not serve as a stout form of insulation.  That auto was constantly frozen inside and out until I was finally able to get a long-backordered rear door installed.

2) The final straw was late January of 1982 while living in another northern suburb of Chicago: Glenview, right next to the Naval Air Station.  One more shrieking storm descended on Chicago. This was, I believe, the coldest I have ever experienced.  Wind chills reached -83 degrees.  We were warned repeatedly by the media to stay indoors.  If you had to go out, then one needed to make quite certain that you did not allow any exposed skin for longer than thirty seconds for fear of severe frostbite.

Those are the type weeks where you pull your battery out of your car each night and bring it in to keep it warm—it would turn into a block of ice otherwise.  Of course, most fuel and oil lines were frozen anyway, so it was often an exercise in futility unless you were fortunate enough to have a heated garage.

On Super Bowl Sunday, I vividly recall that my three roommates and I were bundled up in the living room watching the 49ers win their first over the Bengals.  Now, we weren’t just wearing sweatshirts and donning little shawls.  We were in full blizzard regalia: long underwear, layers of clothing, full coats, hats, and gloves while we were sitting inside the apartment. We had the furnace cranked-up to the limit at 88 degrees, but it was so frigid, that there was literally half an inch of ice on the inner part of every window, and I could see Brian, Andy, and Bob’s breath as we spoke with each other.

Through chattering teeth I determined that I had indeed had enough.  That summer, when the opportunity came along to move to Nashville, my deep hatred of those insane and unpredictable winters definitely entered into the quotient.  I loved so much about Chicago in the other three seasons, and certainly had (and still have) many dear friends there, but I can safely say I have had my fill of Thor’s Revenge.

The Augur of Autumn's Leaves

This is a piece I wrote six years ago that fits my early October mood...

The last eight days I’ve been driving through Kentucky and Pennsylvania, two of the most forested states in the Union—in fact, the latter’s name means “Penn’s Woods.”

Seeing the riveting display of autumn’s final shout before giving-in to the inevitable next cycle of life got me thinking…

Last April, these hills became filled with greens, mostly very similar to each other. Young buds of rebirth and youthfulness. As spring evolved into summer, the trees were reaching skyward in their most accelerated time of growth, striving to gain more sunlight than their neighbors. The leaves are nature’s food factories, soaking up water and carbon dioxide to generate sugar. Through the energy provided by light, “photosynthesis” as I recall from my biology classes, there is spectacular advancement.

Besides the warming light, however, there needs to be moisture. It can come via glooming sprinkles, or frightening torrential downpours. It can sometimes hang thick in the air as sweltering humidity. It can appear as clammy, cold dew throughout each evening. What often appears as too much of it can accumulate as puddles, or bogs, or floodwaters overreaching nearby stream banks. Even the freezing snow and ice of the previous winter helped strengthen the roots and hardwood portions when everything else appeared dead on the outside. Unless the water becomes stagnant and inundates a tree, however, there can rarely be such a thing as too much moister. The growth pattern drinks it up, and stores it for future needs.

We all know that water can be a fun diversion for a time—but after a few hours of fun, it becomes a frustration. Often we are more interested in the happiness that it can bring in shorter increments, but forget that the ongoing consistency, even relentlessness of moisture is what is needed, along with the warmth and energy of God’s illumination, to help sustain us in times to come when the inevitable cycle of life will not provide the same levels. Perhaps this is the depth and meaning of joy—the felt knowing that we are being cared for, even when it may not make us happy, or even feels a bit uncomfortable at particular stages.

As winter approaches, there is not enough light nor water for photosynthesis to continue. The trees will rest, and live off the food they stored during the summer. The bright greens fade away, and we begin to see yellow and orange colors. Small amounts of these have been in the leaves all along—we just can’t see them in the summer because they are covered up with green chlorophyll of youth and discovery.

The combination of all these circumstances—when the sun’s warmth and moisture both lessen--leads to a much different kind of blooming—the fabulous fall foliage.

We can see the uniqueness of each type of trees’ transformation. American Chestnuts, six types of Oaks, Aspens, Sugar Maples and four other Maple cousins, Dogwoods, Sassafras, Black Cherries, Choke Cherries, Fire Cherries, Elms, Buckeyes, Ashes, Sycamores, a quintet of different Hickories, and Beeches, to name but a few. Like snowflakes and fingerprints, no two are alike. And each one is fully realized in its own way. It is as if they are celebrating all that they have learned and endured that summer. Their maturity and character on glorious display.

This final fling of exuberance comes out in scarlet, tope, mauve, royal purple, dandelion yellow, even some like orange sherbet. Hillside mosaics featuring brass, cranberry, blood red, various chocolates, magenta, osage, and a sprinkling in a sea foam tint. Pastiches of burnt sienna, maroon, salmon, lavender, and goldenrod. Fruity pigments like peach, lemon, plum, Granny Smith apple, tangerine, banana, watermelon, mango, and lime. Some licked in flaming yellows with torched, fire-engine red edges. I even saw the Oakland A’s uniforms from the early 70s dappled in some groves. Like a fluorescent Peter Max painting, the kaleidoscope of color pulsates with each gust of wind, and mutates in various hues and combinations with each passing day. If it had been a dry summer, none of this would look like it does now.

This all adds to my pondering about the cycles of my life. Maybe it’s due to the fact I’m about to celebrate another birthday, or that I’ve been working on my Last Will and Testament, or that I am spending the week with my aging father in a retirement community with other souls in their final glory. The wind and cold will finally have their say, no matter how hard we wish otherwise. When we see a few straggling leaves that are hanging on, it is not attractive. By not letting go, we end up embarrassing ourselves and the dignity of our role. In the process, we miss out on the deeper joy that comes from knowing this is all part of the plan.

Even in the regular, tighter cycles of our lives when the winter winds begin to blow, it’s best to bow in humility. And we also need to yield for our cleansing, our scrubbing away. This can only happen when we are stripped. Hopefully, with each new round we learn to acquiesce to the de-clothing with a willing heart. That surrender is part of the joy. Like an infant who often initially kicks and screams before a bath, but then can be cooing as her mother carefully washes and wipes away to prepare for re-dressing.

Soon enough, there will a fresh robing in vibrant greens come next spring. And hence, the cycle continues. So I want to enjoy the colorful celebration of what I’ve experienced this year. Some dark, murky, and even dank colors for sure. But those are the ones that give perspective for the exuberant tones. Beauty, what Aristotle called “the magnitude of truth,” comes from these contrasts. And the deepest joy results in an unmatched vista.