Mid-Winter Reflection; or Is that Brownie Batter on your Lips?

It bores even me to say it, but dang.

It’s cold.

It’s always been cold. 

As is common for my people at this time of year, I’ve clean forgotten the sodden heat of a Minneapolis summer; the brisk, clear skies of fall; the loamy, promising fragrance of a spring day. 

All that is, and ever was, is the possibility of an icy death.

It was eight below zero at the bus stop this morning.  I mention this not by way of bragging or inspiring your pity but simply so that I can then say this:  It’s going to warm up over 40 degrees by Saturday, all the way to freezing.

And don’t think that we don’t get a perverse pleasure out of saying things like that, out of pointing out to lesser, softer beings, that we regularly experience 100-degree swings in and out of our comfort zones.

Because we do get a perverse pleasure out of saying things like that.  This is what keeps us warm:  the knowledge that we are special, if not in our ability to “keep on keeping on” then in our ability to meet the bright, hectic look in our fellow Minnesotans’ eyes as we clap each other on the back whilst declaring “Ha!  Only nine more Mondays until spring!”

It is here where we shut our eyes, ever so briefly, and envision going home, whipping up a batch of brownie batter, and giving up, just laying in the tub hoping our absence at work goes unnoticed until the thaw.

It’s warming up 40 degrees this weekend.   

Only nine more Mondays until spring.

I Think I Recognize that Dune

“We should take a walk down to the beach,” she says.

I look out the window, out to the ocean.  It is 64 degrees out – a good fifty degrees warmer than home – but it is damper, and windier, than this Minneapolitan is accustomed to.  Having packed very light, I have a choice between flip-flops and winter boots.

“Let me grab my boots.”

And so we walk.  We walk and walk.  I have flown to Texas specifically to meet with her:  Shelly, my longtime blog and Facebook friend, is as warm and funny and intelligent as she appears on paper.   

She tells me of Pablo Neruda, of tamales eaten with mustard and $300 chanclas.  I tell her about Michael Chabon and lutefisk and how many layers of clothes you can wear before you can’t bend your limbs.   

She points out broken sand dollars and dead blowfish on the beach and I bend down to inspect them. 

Eventually, we head back to the condo.

And we walk and walk, our faces pink with sea spray. 

“It feels like the complex should be around here somewhere,” she says.

“If it’s not,” I say, “it should be.  I don’t think I’ve walked this far in years.”

We laugh.  Shelly is a weight lifter, a woman with regular exercise and hydration habits, whereas I am a yoga fan with an affinity for home-made fudge. 

We are lost, however, one dune looking pretty much like another.  We choose a boardwalk, then a street, but nothing looks right. 

“Wait here,” she says.  “I’m going to see if I can figure out where we are.”  She heads off down the street, and the next time I turn around, she has turned a corner and is out of sight. 

A grackle lands on the palm tree nearest me.

“Tick-tick-tick-tick wheeeeeeee,” he bellows.

I look up.  “What?”

“Tick-tick-tick-tick wheeeeeeee!”

“Well,” I say, “that’s what you say now.”

A man on a ladder on the building nearest me stops his painting to look down.  I look over in time to see him shaking his head.  Poor lady.

“I hardly know that bird,” I offer.

He says nothing and returns to his work.

“We overshot it!”  Shelly is hustling her way back.  “We overshot by quite a bit!”

“How –“

“I asked some workers,” she says, pointing vaguely from the direction she’s come.  “Four guys came off their ladders to help.”

And so we walk some more.

And 45 minutes later, legs sore and still laughing, we eat lunch without thought to caloric intake.    

And Don’t Forget to Tune in Tomorrow When Pearl Makes Pithy Observations re: Migrating Geese

Just like that, and in a fashion true to Minnesota and her inconsistencies, the weather has made me a liar.

I spoke yesterday – to anyone who would listen, frankly – about my feelings regarding the turning of the seasons, of the darkening skies, of the fact that the time we will spend naked between now and, say, May, has dwindled dramatically.

The temperature at the bus stop yesterday, after all, was 44 degrees.  Enough to get anyone excited.

Today’s rather non-autumnal temperature?

74.

It is here, by the way, that I should interject with a dramatic retelling of the blizzard of Some Much Earlier Year, wherein people, caught unaware by the storm, were forced to take refuge in the interior of oxen and those trapped in houses by unbudge-able doors were compelled to ration their chewing tobaccy, harsh times calling for harsh measures.

Shh.  You hear that? 

Someone has begun to hum The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

It is a fact of life in these here parts that we are contractually obligated to discuss the weather (you’ll find it sandwiched there between the lines specifying that Cream of Mushroom soups must be in the pantry at all times and the part about all carbonated beverages being referred to as “pop”).

Look: when you’re subjected to a hundred-degree temperature differential in the course of a year, you’re allowed a certain amount of weather-related obsession.

Not to mention that, you know, it’s part of the contract.  

March Madness; or Be Prepared to Loan Dolly Her Rent Money*

Several hundred feet of snow fell on Minneapolis Monday night, and continued into Tuesday, burying bus stops, rolled and flung Penny Saver circulars that never hit their mark, and the shorter among us. 

To judge from the amount of conversation it generated, you’d think it had never happened before.

And that, of course, is the beauty of a four-seasoned region.  Every winter, we forget the rash of summer, its insect-humming, thigh-chafing ways.  And every summer, we forget winter, with its snow-drifting, lethal-icicle dropping conditions.

And for this, we are grateful.

Without the March snow, after all, we would find ourselves nonchalantly sliding into spring, shedding woolen underthings and hats like so many two-legged caterpillars.  The bare, sandy sidewalks would continue to reveal themselves without fanfare, though eager for the kiss of bare feet.  Dinners and/or suppers would move from hearty, gravy-laden affairs to sliced tomatoes and various items on a charcoal grill without reference.

We can’t have that, now, can we?

No, no, no.  Like the brisk, musty clarity of fall after the exhaustive talcum-ing of summer, we here in the Great State of Minnesota believe in the righteous, last-ditch burst of winter prior to the warm-warmer-warmest breezes of spring, upon which we will spin, drunk with budding leaves and returning birdies, out of our wool and cashmere layers and into the cotton layers of summer.

It is a heady time.

Until the arrival of spring, of course, we remain buttoned and steadfast, buckets of sand at the ready, our weathered foreheads pressed into the wind as we shovel, as our forefathers did before us, a pot of Thai food on the stove, DVDs at the ready, the big box of Moscato in the fridge.

One rolls with the times, of course.

And the times? 

From winter into spring, they are a’changin’. 

* March is also a time for college basketball and unfettered gambling, especially, for reasons unknown to us, amongst the kitties.  For tales of gambling and loss:

Well, At Least She’s Off the Nip:  Wherein we are grateful that betting on college basketball is not yet a rehab kind of issue for Dolly Gee Squeakers, formerly of the Humane Society Squeakers.

This is Where Dolly’s Allowance Goes:  The cat reveals her system.

And Then There Were Thirteen:  Wherein the kitty sorrowfully realizes that she’s bet more money than she can afford to lose, causing her to stub out her cigarettes and take to smoking them in three- and four- drag increments.

Next Thing You Know - WHAM!! - Your Toes are Black

The temperature at the bus stop this morning was 8 degrees Fahrenheit (-13 Celsius).

It is, by the way, shortly after declaring the temperature that your average Minnesotan is required to tell you the incredibly important facts they have gleaned over a lifetime, all of which are based on truth and specifically embellished for gruesome-ness.

Let me get you started, should you find yourself unable to come to Minneapolis this winter.

Ahem.

Did you know that at this temperature skin freezes? First the skin hurts, then it goes solid white and hard, then it stops hurting, and then it turns black and falls off. I knew a guy once, lost two toes snowmobiling. True story.

Did you know that 75% of heat is lost through the head? Would you believe 80%?

Did you know that there are stories of the settlers forced to kill, split, and climb inside an ox to stay alive when hit by a blizzard while coming back from town? Could you imagine being inside an ox during a snow storm? Could you imagine being inside an ox at any other time?

My father told me, when I was 10, that it wasn’t until he was in his late 20s that he truly understood just how debilitating the cold was. A salesman for a cigarette manufacturer, he often traveled to the Dakotas; and while both Dakotas are known for their unreasonably cold and windy winters, he was in North Dakota when he first truly understood Winter's desire to kill him.

“I’ve got some promotional items with me. Cardboard signs, free lighters, drink coasters, that sort of thing. So I'm in this bar talking to the owner and I run out to the car for them.”

Dad takes a drag of his cigarette, looks off into the distance and shudders slightly, the cold still fresh in his mind.

“You ever been in a fifty-below windchill, Patty?”

My father, unable to recall the ages of his children (“What are you now, 16?” he asked me in fourth grade) is also unable to recall their names and often calls me by his sister's, something he does to this day.

“No, Dad. I don’t think I have.”

“It’ll kill you.” He takes another hit off his cigarette. “See, the thing is that it hurts. It hurts really bad. And then suddenly, it doesn’t. Suddenly, you’re getting warm again. Isn’t that nice?” He pounds the table with the palm of his left hand. “But no! You’re not warm! You’re freezing to death.”

He shakes his head. “As long as you’re in pain, you’re okay. The minute you start getting warm and sleepy and the pain is gone, you’re done for.”

He stares out the window. “Don’t ever fall asleep in the snow. I don’t care how tired you are. You ever fall asleep in the snow, you’ll never wake up.”

He takes another hit of his cigarette. “But that didn’t happen that time in North Dakota.”

I waited. Dad likes to take his time with a story.

“Nope. That’s not how it happened at all.”

Oh. Now I see. “So what did happen, Dad?”

“I put my coat on, right? Grab the keys to the car. I figure, hey, I’ll be in and out, no need for gloves. I’m out there less than two seconds, it seems, when I am completely chilled. Fifty degrees below zero! Think about it, Pearl!”

I think about it. I nod solemnly.

“So I’m holding the keys,” he holds his hand out, shows me how he’s holding the keys, “and I’m back at the trunk, and I drop them. Huh. I pick them up. I drop them again! I bend over, I pull them out of the snow – and I drop them again! And I can feel my fingers slowing down! My fingers won’t hold the keys! I can't get in the car! And I think to myself, man, this is how people die. First it’s the fingers, then it’s the toes, pretty soon you’re stumbling in circles, walking on what feels like someone else’s feet.”

“So what happened, Dad?”

“What happened?” He stands, walks to the fridge and gets himself a beer. “I died! I froze in the snow!”

My face betrays my shock and my dad laughs. “I didn’t die,” he says quickly. He pops the top off his beer.

He pauses, takes a drink of his beer.

“Yep,” he says. “I didn't die. Not that time. But that’s how it happens, I'll bet.”

But I Don’t Wanna Get Up, Mom!

Funny.  While I sometimes hear imaginary music embedded in the static of my white-noise machine, I never  hear birds...

Chip-chip!  Chip-chip!

It may be just short of 5:00 a.m., but there’s no foolin’ someone as quick on the draw as I am.  There is a cardinal perched mere yards from my head. 

Chip-chip!  Chip-chip!

Who do you gotta complain to around here in order to get a full night’s sleep?  I refuse to open my eyes.

Chip-chip!  Chip-chip!

I open my eyes.

No bout a doubt it.  It’s dawn out there.

Not that I hadn’t noticed that before my eyes were open.  Since the handyman came to check on the air conditioner the day before I moved in, the blinds in the alcove that serves as my bedroom have remained in the “up” position.  Not for lack of grunting, mind you.  I’ve grunted, I’ve manipulated, I’ve even sworn at them, but the blinds remain impervious to my pleas and remain steadfastly un-blindered.

One of only two windows in the place and it’s next to the head of my bed.  Facing east. 

Chip-chip!  Chip-chip!

And now the bird.

The world belongs to the early-risers, they say; and having long admired them, it seems I’m on my way to becoming one. 

Whether I like it or not.

Nowadays You Just Can’t Get a Good Wart for Under a Dollar

I was 17 when I sold my wart.

“I hate it. It sits right here on my ring finger.” We are sitting in his pickup in the Dairy Queen parking lot. I push my left hand in front of him, and he dutifully takes it, takes a look.

“I’ve been using so much Compound W that I think it’s going to burn through to the bone,” I say to the top of his head as he bends over the hand, “but the wart won’t budge.”

He straightens up, pushes my hand back. “I’ll give you 35 cents for it.”

Silence.

“What?” I say.

He laughs, puts his hands back on the steering wheel. “When I was little, like 8 or 9, I had two warts on my right hand, on the palm. The neighbor lady gave me 25 cents for the both of them, and just a day or so later they were gone. I figure with inflation and all, I’ll give you 35 cents for just the one.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I say, holding my hand out, “but I’ll take the 35 cents.”

And when my alarm clock goes off the very next day – a Monday, a school day – I glance down at my hands.

And the wart is gone.

My mouth drops.

I tear out of bed, run over the concrete floor of the as-yet unfinished basement. I pick up the phone attached to the wall outside of the downstairs bathroom and punch the numbers as only an excitable teenager can.

“Hello?”

“Chris! It’s me! It’s Pearl!”

“Oh, man! Pearl, it’s really early and if my dad –“

“CHRIS!” A shout from the hallway.

Chris pulls the phone from his mouth, talks to his dad. “She says she’s really sorry, she really does.”

“It’s true,” I say into the phone. “I am really sorry.”

There is the sound of a large irritated man snorting in disgust, and then of Chris’s bedroom door being shut.

Chris puts the phone back up to his ear. “OK, so what’s going on? Why are you calling so early?”

“My wart! It’s gone!”

He laughs. “Of course it’s gone. You sold it.”

“Well, yeah, sure but it’s gone! You know? It’s completely gone. How can that be?”

He laughs. “It just means you’re an honest person, for the most part. You sold something, so you knew you couldn’t keep it, so you got rid of it,” he said. “That’s all there is.”

And that’s all there was.



Do kids still buy warts off each other?

Winter Watches, Even if it IS Using Binoculars at the Moment...

I’m worried about the weather.

Frankly, it’s nice out. And this is why I’m worried. You see, it’s even more than nice – it’s beautiful. Temperatures in the low 80s all week, not a cloud in the sky. All very picturesque. All very friendly.

There’s something peculiar about that.

You can almost hear it, winter lying in wait, lulling you toward complacency while plotting to freeze your car locks open/closed.

Minnesota is the state that promises to hold your seat while you run to the bathroom only to have you find, upon your return, that her friends have taken up residence and they’re now mocking your choice of drink.

What’s your hurry? she whispers, a soft warm breeze in your ear. No need to check on your snowblower! We’re so far beyond that, you and I. Now why don’t you just throw down a blanket, lay in the sunshine for a while…

And then BLAMMO! Two feet of snow fall on you and they find your body in the spring.

Minnesota: Land of 10,000 Lakes. The “Brainpower” State. The State that Thinks You Would Look Better Blue.

Of course, you’ll remind me in February of how unfair I was to autumn, won’t you? After I’ve written my 30th straight post on how the weather is trying to kill me? After I’ve blathered on yet again regarding my astonishment over how I can now keep ice cream frozen quite solidly in the trunk of my car?

Heh, heh, heh. The car as four-wheeled icebox never gets old for me.

Still, I try to enjoy the seasons, but there’s been a change in the light, you see, and I think that’s what I find most troubling. We are mere days away from the shift, from the vivid colors of autumn turning to the brittle, it’s-only-recently-died look of fall.

We are mere days away from the discovery, once again, that winter is not our friend -- which means we are mere days away from another post on the restorative qualities of made-from-scratch gravy.

Hmm.  Maybe it won't be all bad.

Gravy.

Pearl Gets Schooled. By Fish.

The year the movie Jaws came out, my brother and I saw it seven times.

Frankly, I've never gotten over the repeated viewings of that shark. I can't see a boat in dark water without thinking a disembodied head will make an appearance.

I am a nervous, almost superstitious person near open water.

So of course I found myself up to my armpits in the Gulf waters off of Florida on Monday.

Florida! Blue waters, white sands, dark brown senior citizens. You come for the weather, but you stay for the Bingo.

"Come further out," T shouts at me. There are three fluffy clouds on the horizon. A pair of tourists are pulled, kite-like, behind a motorboat just past the buoys. It is postcard beautiful.

I shake my head vigorously, as someone who has just spent Shark Week, in front of a television, mouth agape, would.

"Did you know," I shout, "that bull sharks have been known to swim up fresh water rivers into suburban neighborhoods to eat our pets?"

T cocks his head at me, frowns.

"Their teeth just keep growing, you know," I holler.

A strange look passes over T's face. I've seen it before -- it's the look that he gets just before he decides to teach me something...

"Hey," I yell.

He raises his arms up over his head.

"Cut it out!" I shriek.

Smiling, he arms raised in watery benediction, T wails theatrically into the wind, "Hear me, O Minion! You are summoned!"

"No, no, no!" I bawl. "There's no summoning!"

"Arise!"

And the surface of the water is covered with tiny silver splashings. Imagine invisible fingers flicking water. Imagine invisible rain drops striking the surface.

Imagine my eyes bugging out of my head.

I fall backwards in my attempt to get away, get closer to the beach. "What did you do?! What are those?"

I look down to see a three-foot wide swath of tiny, glittering fiddies fill the space between T and I. I watch, mouth open, as they pass by with precision movements, almost imperceptible adjustments in direction. Hundreds, maybe thousands of finger-long fish swim between us and are gone.

I look up. "How did you do that?"

T shrugs, laughing. "Sometimes they just show up."

I imagine punching him, but lay back, float on my back.

There are so many things I know nothing about.

"Pearl."

I open my eyes. My name has been whispered.

I stand up. T is pointing at a very large dark spot in the water, and he's not smiling. He looks awestruck.

"Manatee."

He said "manatee".

But what I heard was not "manatee" but "sting ray". I stagger, a quick two steps back, my hands clutched at chin level.

And then I hear what he's really said.

Manatee.

I move forward.

She hasn't moved. Six, maybe seven feet long, she hovers perhaps three feet from me.

"You can't touch them," T says. "It's against the law."

I drop down into the water, open my eyes, but she is already moving away, slowly, so slowly, a lumpy gray ghost moving into the deeper blue.

And she is gone.

T and I look at each other. "That is, by far," he whispers, "the closest I've ever been to a manatee."

I am speechless.

I lay back, float on the water.

There are so many things I know nothing about.