I don’t like being cold. And I am especially not fond of
snow. Over the last two winters, I have inadvertently placed myself in winter
weather. Last winter I was in the “sunny south,” about 90 miles north of
Atlanta. But I was also in the Blue Ridge Mountains and the region had record
cold. This year, I am at a state park near Bend, Oregon. I am on the eastern
side of the Cascade Mountain Range. On the western side, there is the Willamette
Valley, where temperatures are about 15 degrees warmer and snow is not much of
an issue.
But today, it is snowing heavily. It is around 3 p.m. and
there are at least six inches on the ground already. I expect more tonight with
bitter temperatures in the low single digits to prevent any thought of
moderation. I was due to roll out to my new destination in the morning, but I
have abandoned such plans and will probably wait until New Years Day to leave
in the afternoon when the temperature will rise to freezing.
About six weeks ago, we had an early season snow that turned
to ice, leaving much misery as a the ice made it impossible for me to drive up
the hill that is at the entrance to my campsite where I am hosting. But this
time, it is simply a matter of cold. So the snow won’t turn to ice, but won’t
melt either. The nights have been below freezing for some time now, but daytime
temperatures in the high 30˚s and low 40˚s have made life comfortable until
now. But even the moderate weather caused some problems. I had two buckets
filled with dirt that I used to anchor my awning. The buckets froze with the
rain that poured into them over the months. I had to bring them inside to
loosen the stakes that were in them.
And so I am trapped in a splendid and beautiful isolation. And
it is often at these times I take my fingers to keyboard to write. There is
quiet and I know it is doubtful that anyone will come knocking at my door. I am
truly alone and I feel secure in it. I don’t have to submit myself to any
interpersonal behavior and am simply bathed in the calm. I also feel quite
secure. While it is quite possible the power will go out, I have a propane
refrigerator and stove and enough power in storage batteries to last at least a
couple of days. My primary heating system is an electric infrared fireplace,
but I know that I can flip a switch to activate the propane heat.
And the view is incredible. I can look out at my picnic
table to judge the number of inches of snow. And in the background are many
pine trees whose branches provide a serene blanket of green and white.
A park ranger, Josie, is in a pickup plowing the road. It
will eventually become my route to freedom in a few days, and one more thing I
am secure of. I expect her to drop by to pick up the park’s keys, cell phone
and other items.
But the best part of this magnificent environment is that I
am able to write. I haven’t even decided what to write about yet but I do know
that I have already written nearly 600 words.
My mind continues to wander to memories of previous winter
cold, especially fears. I suspect my earliest incident was when I was about
nine years old. We lived in a town called Victory Gardens in New Jersey. It is
the smallest municipality in the state. All of the homes in the town were built
of cement blocks during the World War II years for workers who labored at a
nearby arsenal. The buildings used coal for heat and it was purchased by the
ton and then dropped into a bin. One would shovel it into a furnace that would
generate the heat.
By this time, my parents had been separated for about three
years and I had spent my third through fifth grades in five different schools
and eight different homes. I was beginning to act out and I didn’t know what
would happen next. Mom was broke. We were using firewood I had scrounged in the
woods and charcoal to feed the furnace. It burned way too quickly and for about
a week I went to sleep at night bundled in winter clothes and many blankets.
When the coal finally was delivered, I hid in the bin for hours on end,
guarding it.
Christmas of 1965 was very different. It had snowed
overnight and we were left with about a foot of the white stuff. The morning
was cold but clear. I went downstairs to find our landlord shoveling. I joined
him and we spent about two hours in removing the rather wet and heavy snow. My
mother was furious. I don’t know why but she told me I had no business shoveling;
it was the landlord’s job. As the years go by I realized she was well on her
way to getting plastered. She was angry at the world I suppose. The snow
prevented us from going to here friend’s home for Christmas dinner and we
didn’t have much in the fridge. I suspect some sort of canned dinner was on
tap. However, the landlord showed up with half a roast beef and the trimmings
and we ate well.
I had moved out from the madness by 1968. I had a studio
basement apartment and lived quietly. However I didn’t make much money and just
like mom 13 years earlier, I was unable to pay the gas bill and I had gas heat.
I went through the month of March sleeping in jeans and a sweatshirt and lying
near a rotisserie, which supplied some minimal heat. But I would rather endure
the cold than return home. Had I asked, I suppose my mother would give or lend
me the money to pay the bill, but I was either too proud or too stupid to ask.
I never gave it a thought.
Darkness comes early around here. It is about five minutes
before sunset now and because the mountains are to the west, it is a time of
twilight. The snow continues to swirl and has changed to much larger flakes. I
will let Pup out for a walk in a few minutes. Earlier today he enjoyed
frolicking in the snow as I walked him. It is a far cry from his first exposure
to snow when he put his feet into it and ran under the trailer. Born in
Florida, he had never seen it before. I rarely put a sweater on him, for he has
a thick coat. But tonight I most certainly will.
The ex and I moved to Ronkonkoma, a town on Long Island, New
York around 1982. Long Island is, of course, along the Atlantic Coast and is subject
to massive blizzards called ‘nor’easters’ – the equivalent of tropical storms
that rage up the coast. I remember the first one the most. We lived on a dead
end street. It was wonderful for our children’s safety, but hell on snow
plowers. The would have to plow up a small hill and then down a bit so that the
six houses beyond us could be cleared. But they often became trapped when there
was ice on the ground. Sometimes they would plow to the top of the hill and
other times, they ignored us. I never did like it when they made it to the just
over the top as they would push the snow along my driveway, tripling my efforts
at clearance.
Anyhow, the first time I experienced this, they didn’t come
at all. On the third day after the storm, it was warm and the snow was starting
to melt. All the neighbors went out into the street and had a block party of
sorts shoveling.
We lived near Long Island’s MacArthur Airport. One year with
the beginnings of a blizzard attacking, we had to drop off my oldest son so he could
fly back to college in suburban Chicago. We watched as the wings were deiced
several times, hoping that the flight would be cancelled. In the meantime,
plows were constantly clearing the runways and with great fear, we watched as
he boarded and then saw the jet taking off. We were very relieved that it was a
safe takeoff. By the time the flight left, there was more than 18 inches of
snow on the ground and his was the last plane that left the east coast for
several days.
By then, we had purchased an electric snow shovel after
several arguments about the cost. But I finally refused to shovel snow without
it. My back couldn’t take it any more and I would come back into the house
profusely sweating and my heart racing. The best pair of ‘nor’easters (they often
came up the coast one after the other) was when we weren’t there. Our one and
only grandchild had been born in late November and we flew to Portland to meet
her. This was during Christmas and our other son, who stayed behind, had to
clear both storms up . . . about 40 inches.
But these were times when there was plenty of heat and
warmth. I discovered that over the years, I needed the temperature to be around
75º to be comfortable while the ex insisted on 65º. There were occasional
battles over this with both of us being both sneaky and stubborn, constantly
adjusting the thermostats in every room of the house.
But perhaps the worst moments of Ronkonkoma winters was the
arguing. Winter is a depressing time. There were the cold and short days. We
argued to a point where I couldn’t handle it and I would spend the night in the
car. I had sleeping bags there and I would park in the back of the church,
which I thought to be safe. One February morning I couldn’t take it any longer
and checked myself into a psych ward for depression and compulsive overeating.
I refused to even see her until she apologized for doing something that was
extremely hurtful.
Since then, my encounters with snow have been rare. I lived
in a senior apartment complex in Port Jervis, NY and when it snowed, the
maintenance people cleaned off the cars and plowed them after moving them to
clear the parking spaces as well.
In 2013 the weather bureau decided to start naming
blizzards. I wound up smack in the middle of the first one. Coming out of the
Rockies and through the Black Hills, this one dumped about three feet on the
prairie town where I had spent the summer. It was around October 4th
and we expected a few inches. The worst part was the high winds and drifting.
You couldn’t get into the town’s emergency shelter because drifts had gone
above the doors. There was one motel where the snow had drifted up to the top
of the second floor balcony, trapping the people in first floor rooms and
completely covering their cars. Interstate Highway 90, the major east-west
route for the northern part of the country, ran right through the town. It was
closed for five days. I followed it on TV until the power went out, but was
still quite comfortable with my propane heat. I have made it a point to never
be without full tanks again.
My former boss and now good friend constantly invited me to
go skiing in Vermont where he had a time-share. I had a bad knee and kept on
refusing, but I also wonder if fear, or at least an intense dislike, of cold
that was built from a lifetime of unpleasant experiences was the real reason.
Anyhow, I’ve just past 2000 words trying to figure out a
topic to write about. The night has turned black and I need to walk and feed
Pup and settle in for a long winter’s nap. Happy New Year to all.
