Grab Winter by the Snowballs

When it gets as cold as it did after our first real snowstorm of the season a few weeks ago, it gets so you don’t notice it anymore after a while because it’s not a thing to “notice” so much as it’s the only thing you’re thinking about to begin with.

It was, in retrospect, a storm that didn’t even remotely live up to the massive amount of hype that preceded it, and this made me wonder if cold fronts hire publicists these days as this one single-handedly commandeered all our local media for the better part of three days.

Sure, it may have been a legitimate blizzard, but when words like “life threatening,” “historic” and “snow-pocalypse” are being tossed around on TV and in print, I fully expect to see stories of cows frozen solid, Cossacks raiding the Hy-Vee and sporadic acts of desperate cannibalism being reported in snowbound bowling alleys shortly thereafter–but they never materialized.

Winter is a long season in Iowa though, so maybe next time, right?

And–if that were to end up happening–we’d gripe about it then just like we griped about this storm and we’ll gripe about the one after that. But the fact remains that since we’re still here griping about them they really must not bother us that much after all.

The state of Arizona doesn’t have a fence around it just yet. We’re free to move there any time we like but we don’t, because we like it here, and for good reason.

As bad as it ever gets here we still have it easy considering that–not all that long ago–people living in Iowa were subjected to the same kind of winters we are but without a mailbox full of Netflix DVDs to help them pass the time when they were snowed in or the numbers for 14 different pizza places that deliver stored on their cell phones.

If they weren’t careful and they let their chamber pots freeze over, they’d just have to hold it until spring. A cold floor greeting us when we get out of our hot shower in the morning isn’t quite the same hardship.

Our wintertime “suffering” is little more than minor inconveniences compared to theirs.

Like the time I spent nearly 30 minutes shoveling out a car I mistook for my own. This is not a problem you’d have if you lived in Miami. You might go outside some January morning and find that your car had been stolen if you lived there but the weather would probably be a lot nicer and this would make it easier to process the news. And it wouldn’t take 30 minutes.

Early in the morning while I shoveled and salted the walk on those first few bitter bitter cold days I could hear car engines neighing like horses as they struggled to turn over with batteries that weren’t up to the challenge.

I don’t know much about horses, but I can’t imagine a horse would have been any more enthusiastic to get moving in that kind of cold. And last I heard you can’t jump-start a horse.

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So, we either did or didn’t get our cars started but nobody died if we didn’t. Nobody froze to death because they ran out of firewood and nobody died after getting lost in a whiteout just yards from their front door while outside searching for it. These things actually happened in years past. Did some people lose their cars in the mall parking lot while out Christmas shopping? I’m sure it happened to a number of people but nobody will be telling their grandchildren about it.

Even if we absolutely had to spend a lot of time outdoors, our winter wear is infinitely more efficient than that of our predecessors here, and none of it requires us to personally shear or skin any animal to make.

Unless, of course, Uggs are actually made from a creature of the same name that is simply unknown to me, and each sorority house in town has a tanning and hiding operation set up in their basement.

I don’t know this to be true, but I won’t rule it out because I’m hard-pressed to believe that people would actually pay money for boots that look like they came from a Muppet production of some Wagner opera.

But just because such amazingly warm winter clothes are available to us all doesn’t mean that we’re all smart enough to wear them.

Wearing spaghetti straps and heels in 15-degree weather while teetering down Burlington Street through the snow towards the bars might not seem like a bad plan–or even one too difficult to pull off–at nine o’clock on a Saturday night with a stomach full of jello shots and excitement about the adventures the night may hold, but it’s awfully painful to watch the same girls make the return trip back uphill the following morning over ice while holding their shoes and their stomachs which are now filled only with regrets and the other half of the burrito that’s caked in their hair while desperately resisting the urge to scratch at an annoying new itch in a place it’s not polite to scratch in public.

Then again, you’re only young once, right? Maybe this is their Matterhorn.

Even though the snow was a bother for a few days (and will be a bother again few months from now when make-up days will extend the school year for everyone who had classes cancelled because of the storm, just as the weather starts taunting us for spending one more minute inside than is required for bathing) I still prefer snow to the ice storms we experienced a few winters back.

Like the morning there was a quarter-inch of ice (yes, I measured) encasing every single thing in Johnson County. While scraping the ice off my car after one such storm, I decided to just make a few surgical cuts and to pull away really fast to see if I’d be able to leave a car-shaped shell on the street like a 2,000-pound cicada might have, had it shed its exoskeleton in front of my house. It didn’t work. And the duct tape still holding my front bumper together that survives to this day is a reminder of that fact.

It was during one of those ice storms a few years back when the entire east side of town lost power. I called a friend who lived on the west side of the river to see if he still had power, and he told me he didn’t, but he had plenty of wood for the pot-bellied stove in his basement. So I poured a bowl of brandy for my cat, wished it well, and invited myself over for dinner.

When I got there I discovered that two other mutual friends who also lived on the east side had done the same thing, and we all enjoyed a lovely and impromptu feast made by his wife from random leftovers warmed up on the stove top. We drank a few bottles of wine and had a snowball-throwing contest where we tried to see who could hit the stop sign on the corner from his front step.

It was actually a disappointment to leave when power had been restored. I wished it didn’t take an ice storm to create evenings like that, but as long as it does, I’ll put up with them.

It was a far nicer and more memorable evening then any of us would have had on a random Thursday night in the middle of May.

Why? For the company and the meal? Sure, but more so because the storm itself was something we had “survived” together.

Our spontaneous wonderful evening was our insurgency against the storm.

It’s still snowing out? Fine, we’ll open another bottle of wine.

By the time I got home my house was toasty warm and my cat was still sober. I drank his untouched brandy out of the bowl I had poured it in while I looked out the window and watched the sodium vapor lights turn my block the same color orange as a desert sunset and tucked that memory away for just a time like this.

Winter will only be as hard on you as you let it.

Stand up, hold your ground, open a bottle of wine with your friends. It’ll be gone soon enough.