The first winter I lived in Maine, my roommate and I didn't own a car. So KL and I walked everywhere -- up the hill to the laundromat, up the hill to work, up the hill to the coffee shop or the diner or the bar.
In the middle of the town where we lived was a very tall bank. On top of the bank was a giant digital sign that alternately flashed the current time and temperature and could be seen for miles around.
One morning in mid-January, KL and I were trudging across a recently plowed sidewalk on our way to Marcy's Diner, where we liked to get egg sandwiches and coffee on Sunday mornings, and because the booths were smacked up against the open kitchen, so it was about the warmest place in town.
On our way, one of us glanced up. "It's SEVEN degrees!" we said.
We had never knowingly experienced seven before. One of us is from Texas (me), and the other is from Maryland.
"No wonder we're freezing," we said.
Ever since then, seven degrees has marked a dividing line for me. Warmer than seven=fine. Colder than seven, and I can no longer distinguish between one temperature and another, so it might as well be -15.
So I grew a little uneasy when Joe woke me up this morning with the following announcement, delivered with a mix of awe and alarm: "It's negative-eight out there!"
I recalled my friend BJ, who grew up in North Dakota and once said it could get so cold that your eyeballs were at risk of freezing. I thought about calling her, and asking if she'd been speaking in hyperbole, or if I should consider purchasing goggles.
But when we went outside, it didn't feel so bad. "This doesn't feel any colder than yesterday," I said, pulling my scarf a little tighter.
And so now I'm reconsidering seven's bad reputation. It wasn't seven's fault that my first Maine winter was borderline miserable. It was the fact that I hadn't yet developed a full appreciation for wool.
I grew to love the constant presence of snow, and the ritual of donning ten layers of clothing just to run to the grocery store, and the sound of ice under my boots. I loved that when it reached 35 degrees, it felt too hot for a winter coat. And I loved the first day of the year when the Time & Temp building flashed 50 degrees: All of sudden, people stripped off their jackets and outer layers to expose their flesh to the elements for the first time in five months. Total liberation.
I think I should call KL and tell her I might be changing my mind. "Seven's not so bad," I'll say. "It's just misunderstood."
2 comments:
I remember -8. And I remember last Feb when we hit a string of -17 days that lasted two weeks. Just steer clear of the lakeshores then . . . when that wind gets going on the lakes . . . man.
But you're right about what happens at 50. Wait until the first farmer's market after it turns 50. It's like the beach.
We should email. I know places. And people. Have you guys found Nattspil yet?
My brother-in-law lives in Alaska, and my husband has been twice to visit. Sometimes the air is so cold that your breath comes out in smoke and crystalizes instantly.
There's an old Alaskan joke, of course, about the cold. Three drunks at a bar are comparing how cold their igloos are, engaged in a serious game of one-up-man-ship. The first guy says, "My igloo's so cold, my poop freezes." He produces an example and smashes it against the floor, where it shatters.
At the next guy's igloo, he proves that his pee, indeed, freezes mid-stream.
At the third guy's igloo, the man says, "That's nothing." He sits in a chair, then stands. The other two look around. The man removes what seems to be an invisible disk from the top of the seat. He takes it to a candle, holds it over the flame, and the room fills with the sound and odor of a voluminous fart.
I guess you had to be there.
Which is to say that clocks are big, machines are heavy, and seven is not too cold if you have wool.
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