The True Meaning of February in the Northeast (the Catskills)

I have a friend in Florida, we’ll call her Blondie, who replied recently, after reading my single digit woes in an email, that “cold” is just a temperature. I'd written about the morning weather report that we could expect a high of 10^ at the end of the week. She had the Blondie nerve (as she always does) to whine that the temp is down in the 40’s in sunny Florida...”don’t hate me" she always says.

Of course I hate her.  Well no, not really. But the whole email exchange got me thinking about what is really true about this frozen February here in the northeast.   Because, it’s not  really just about the temperature, as some would say...and say...and say... like the co-workers who spar each morning about the temperature reading in their cars when they left for work. 

It’s not just about the temperature. The problem with the fucking cold is everything they’re not saying.

There’s the cost of a frigid winter in the northeast.  Yeah, gas prices are down. So what?  How does that compare with the price of heating oil per gallon, when the wheezing, groaning noise of the furnace works non-stop to keep the house barely warm; drafts continuing to swirl in corners.  The floors hold enough cold to punish ones feet; sox are not sufficient, not by a long shot.  One needs slippers, shoes, boots, to do the trick.  Nighttime sleeping: the cold hair, the tunneling, the turtle like behavior; some worrying about the woolen scarf wrapped around your neck and killing you, like Isadora Duncan, in your sleep.  Dressing for winter is an art form, and needs to be done well.  You need enough pairs of long johns to make it through the work week; yes, they are necessary.   You have to have wool sweaters. Forget cotton, forget acrylic, forget the fluffy blends.  Wool, merino, cashmere.  Wool sox only; hats, layers, layers, layers.  Do you know, do you remember about layers Blondie? 

Catching the winter vacationing mice that have moved in, like Glenford is their Caribbean paradise.

The supermarket:  there will be shortages. Cream of Wheat wiped off the shelf.  Specials on chicken broth, soups.  Marketers dress in black for the most part, mourning the brutality outside, leaving their baskets to roll around the parking lot, not willing to walk them into the basket corral. They breeze through the aisles, rapidly shopping for hearty meal components: chickens, soups, potatoes, mac and cheese. Fuck salads and ice cream - too cold! 

Your fingers are cracking, splitting; forget citrus fruit, you will drop dead immediately from the pain of a an orange dripping on your cut fingers.  Additional dollars must be spent for dry skin crème. Pump it up baby! Slather! Schmear!  Remember the foot crème, or you won’t recognize your heels in the spring, when you go sock-less.  You must take your clothes out of the closet in the morning and bring them to room temperature; if not, that skirt you’re sliding into will have the effect of ice cubes rubbing up and down your legs.

Static hair?  Goop and grease, hair clips, clamps to hold it down.  Hat hair?  It doesn’t matter, your face is so tight and dry, just do up your lips bright red, smash the wool hat on your head and hope for a bohemian effect. 

Your car is an unrecognizable color.  All cars look frozen and talc powdered, and it ends up on your coat.  Pot holes, sink holes, parking lots chinked up and heaving; driving around 10 foot mountains of piled snow.

Ok, yes, the beauty!  The silence, the pure white wrapping the landscape. The sparkle of sun on new snow, the blinding light and glitter of it.  The soft pervasive stillness of winter.  The opportunity for introspection.  The smell of woodstoves in the air of the small village.  Following footfalls of the deer prints up the driveway. The pink and orange kissed skies on the drive home.  Winter, it’s such a short time really. Sorry you’re missing it Blondie!