When It’s Wintertime In Minnesota It’s 50 Above

There’s a need to hurry, as time is running out and the better part of the day has been spent at work indoors. At home, it’s four in the afternoon and little dog Harley sniffs the grass, and not the absent snow, each time after he catches the ball I toss high in the air. The sun is low but still warm. Spinner, the neighbor rat terrier wanders up to the fence. The two little dogs exchange sniffs and then chase each other the length of the fence line. Neighbor Dale walks over after admiring his handiwork, the finishing touches on the addition to his garage. It’s work he was prepared to do, come freezing temps or today’s 50 above. Now he and Spinner are off to take a trip with his nephew to shop for a flat screen TV. It’s shopping weather. Equally inspired by the weather, I call Tory, who is still at work, to let her know I’m walking the two and a half miles to Culvers and she should meet me there for supper.

Along the walking path, a couple up ahead looks overdressed in fall outerwear. The woman with a wool-knit cap sets the pace while the bearded man, wearing a heavy jacket, carries a walking stick – a headless shaft of a driver – whacking dead weeds standing at attention along the trail. I jaywalk across a none-ice-packed intersection where traffic travels with a summer-like buzz. I cut through the snowless lawns of commercial businesses, watching fellow working stiffs escape from their cells. I jaywalk again – don’t really care for crosswalks and streetlights – across a four-lane boulevard, just inside the blind spot of a squad car parked off the street and behind bare bushes, waiting to take advantage of the nice weather to hand out tickets to speeders and jaywalkers.

The shadows are already growing long, as I catch up to and pass an old-timer out for a stroll while others walk their dogs or march their children up and down the sidewalks. Fresh spring air in the dead of winter is a rare commodity, like dry matches in Jack London’s tale To Build A Fire.

Forty minutes later, Tory and I are at Culvers enjoying burgers and shakes, a meal fit for warm-weather lollygagging and self-reflection. We sit in a section of mostly elderly people, away from the lively chatter of children who must have a false sense of the season. I know otherwise, but pretend, all the same, that it’s springtime in Minnesota. It’s growing dark, but, again, I just pretend my wife and I are out for a late evening snack, so instead of 5 o’clock, I pretend it’s closer to 8 o’clock. There’s nothing wrong with pretending, especially when it concerns hiding from the conspiring elements of winter huddled along the U.S.-Canadian border.

That was two days ago. The slimmest chance of an early spring has come and gone. Now there’s a biting wind creating a wind chill of near 0 this morning. And on the radio, McDonald’s is advertising a buy-one-get-one of some gut rot whenever the temp is below 0. A choice between a full price meal at Culvers and a temp of 50 above versus McD’s sadistic promotion of cold weather and extra fat grams for free? Sounds like a no-brainer to me.

Old Man Winter…A Friend to the Young

So far this fall I’ve yet to leave for work in the early mornings wearing a jacket or coat. I figure as long as the day’s temp starts out above freezing and there’s still no snow on the ground, I’m good to go. But this is just me pushing back against Old Man Winter and his suffocating ways, with frost-covered windows and the narrowing of the driveway from maturing snowbanks on either side. It’s bad enough the darkness hangs around from the night before, crowding the wee hours until the sun is ready to play its second-fiddle tune, the short part of the day, made up of either bright-frigid notes or else a cloud-covered, blustery tempo.

I wasn’t always averse to winter. I remember the days of my youth when my brothers and I were dropped off Saturday mornings at the mid-town outdoor ice rink, where I would clumsily stumble on seemingly dull blades that felt as though they were made of lead, with wobbly aching ankles, begging for some sense of coordination. Yeah. A guy born and raised in a hockey town sucked at skating. It happens.

We played street football as well. Of course, it was nice when there was some fluff on the pavement from a recent snowfall. But even after a good packing down from traffic or sleet, there was still a fearlessness in our games. We played with intensity, never seeming to tire. And always, the game called on account of darkness. We’re all nearly fifty, but we actually had a rousing game a couple of Christmases ago. There’s just an awareness now to play within ourselves, i.e., not allowing the mind to run faster than the legs.

I remember signing up for ski trips to Spirit Mountain in Duluth during my junior-high years. They were after-school trips and we’d bus the twenty miles right around dusk. Everyone would break off into their little groups, skiing those short runs till nearly closing time. On the way back in the darkness, broken only by an occasional passing set of headlights, you could feel the spent energy and the closeness of a bunch of adolescents, engaged in silly flirtation, made up of non-sensical chattering or serenading, singing along to the latest pop song on the radio.

Back in the day my family snowmobiled through the streets of town and on the outskirts. Three Arctic Cats, all early-70s models. After spraying the heck out of the carburetors with WD-40, they’d fire up, and then we were off, chugging along, a convoy, both passive and casual. No daredevil stunts. No racing. Just out enjoying the small-town scenery, while little sister changes colors from inhaling gas fumes.

Now-a-years, I hunker down for the long, insufferable agony that awaits those of us who live in that place where most of us would not otherwise live had we not been born there. I have a stack of books to read and a bright lamp that serves as a piece of a pretend tropical getaway. It’s a setting that helps me maintain my sanity. But only until one of the housecats, looking for warmth beyond its own coat, jumps into my lap, its purr reminding me of the outdoor brrr.