The Weather Outside is Frightful

I appreciate glittery frost on the cobwebs and the beauty of leaves blown about in a winter gale, individually chaotic yet corporately streamlined as they whip around the barren trees; I love the clean softness of freshly fallen snow, the way it muffles the world for a few hours until it is inevitably sullied by warmth and humanity. I love that the change of weather changes the sound of the air from lush and deep to tinny and thin, that the cool, refreshing breezes of summer turn gradually into whistling - and later howling - blusters that pull at scarves and prod errant litter down the empty, echoing streets.

Warmth is something I understand. It makes me want to breathe deeply and go conquer the world. But I hate being cold. I hate the prospect of being cold. I hate, hate the sudden streaks of hard goose bumps that rush up my legs as soon as the wind licks my jeans. I hate the hot sensation of truly cold fingers; the numb nose; the red, raw eyes. I hate the wooden, stiff feeling that permeates my muscles as I attempt to thaw. I hate the feeling that I am one thermostat, one winter coat, one fireplace away from death.

When I lay in bed, warm under my comforter, next to my radiator (which is usually dressed in tomorrow’s clothes so that they are warm when I put them on,) I usually can’t help but think, “…But for these walls…I’d be dying or dead, frozen somewhere in a corner, unable to move.” It’s a bit ridiculous because, of course, there ARE walls there, and I DO have a radiator, and I am not dead or near-dead because of the cold. But those walls are a thin separation, psychologically and physically, between me and that numbing temperature. And a jacket and gloves, although effective, are an almost comical boundary between my skin and the elements: how easy it would be to be stripped of that protection and be rendered helpless, my thin skin against the cruel winter.

When my brother lived in Alaska, he got frostbite because his ear was not sufficiently covered as he walked between his dorm and the library. This would not happen in Hawaii. You would not be this frighteningly close to frostbite, hypothermia, and death from exposure if you lived in San Diego, where when you walk outside, you are not a potential victim of the weather itself. One is not afraid, during the summer months, of being stripped of one’s sundress and sandals because (save for the possibility of being extremely embarrassed) it’s not a life-threatening possibility. Naked threats like illness, boredom and dehydration are benign until paired with looming, billowing cold that rushes down your neck, paralyzing you even as you attempt to defend yourself from illness, dehydration, boredom.

Cold makes everything harder, slower, more laborious. Cold is confident that, given enough time, he could permeate even your most carefully planned layers of clothing. Cold wants you to recognize his tyrannical presence and bow to him as he passes. Cold and I are not on speaking terms.

At the Lighting of the National Christmas Tree, Freezing. December 6, 2007.

And the Living is Easy

It is nice to think, "Maybe I'll go out tonight," and then stand up, pick up your purse, and go, ignoring the coats hanging in the foyer, the boots stashed under the bed 'til winter, and the scarves that are neatly folded on the upper shelf. It's nice to meander down through the farmer's market, run your eyes over the fresh tomatoes, and then continue meandering to a terrace, order some coffee, and drink it outside without adjusting your sweater to protect against the intrusion of a cool breeze.

I appreciate the change of the seasons, the ripple of cold in the air as autumn approaches, the urge around the end of September to wear something warm and camel colored and maybe bring a thick red scarf just in case, the sudden appearance of pumpkins in the grocery stores. I appreciate the cold winter with the long warm coats and the fresh snow and the hot drinks. I appreciate the spring when the greens are tender and the flowers are innocent and nothing seems to have ever heard of age or death. But summer is my favorite. Summer is when I feel that I could, if I set my mind to it, conquer the world, when art is most meaningful and friendships more invigorating. There is something about the heat and the sweat and the constant temperature, the sheer bliss of having a cold drink in the hot sun, the ability to sit out all night on your roof and never fear the cold, that makes me feel immortal and capable. Summer is when I Plan My Life, consider things that I'm too miserable to consider in the winter when it's cold and I'm preoccupied with thawing my fingers. Summer is when I get up the energy to call old friends and invite people over and drop in uninvited and buy plane tickets in anticipation of a lazy August and peruse grad school catalogues.

I don't know if it's the fact that the seasons here do change and I have therefore learned to appreciate summer all the more, or if I just really like warmth. I think it's the latter: I have only visited Florida once, and it was August, and what I found alarming, in a pure rush of realization, was that the water and the air were not only the same color, but the same temperature. You could wade and wade and hardly tell where the water ended and the air began, only sometimes by looking down through the ripples and seeing your toes in the sand, broken by soft, soft waves and tiny, tiny grains. The California waves are cold and harsh and loud, but here, there were no waves, there were no crashes or rocks. Just water and sand and water, turquoise and aqua, warm as a baby's bathtub, smooth and wet. It was beautiful and inspiring and made my heart beat faster.

Maybe if I lived by the Florida beach and saw it every day, or under a palm tree in St. Martin, or by a Tahitian lagoon, the refreshing feeling of warmth and summer would wear off and it would be same, same, uninspiring and boring. Maybe. Maybe I would miss the metallic smell of winter and the gradual thaw of spring.

For now, I'll stick with the four seasons and enjoy the trickles of sweat that begin creeping down my back as soon as I step out of my air conditioned office, the sticky smell of skin and sun, and the feeling of life, life! that surges through my fingers when I step out into the heat.

Urban

The District's DMV has a deservedly, erm, disappointing reputation. My last encounter with them brought me to tears. So when I got the notice in the mail that my registration was about to expire and I should plan another trip to the DMV by June 26th, I promptly put the letter in my (growing) pile of To-Do and made a conscious decision to procrastinate. I accomplished this goal very well and finally got around to doing something about that letter on June 27th.

Last year, I came out to my car on a crisp spring morning to discover that my driver's side mirror had been shattered. The mechanics still worked, there was just no mirror. I called a few Toyota dealers and auto parts stores. The estimate was $500-$600. "For a mirror?" "Yup, 'fraid so. You gotta replace the whole piece, can't just buy a mirror." Yeah.

So I bought a hand held mirror for $2.99 and ripped the plastic casing off. Then I bought a glass cutter and cut a piece of glass the shape and size of the mirror casing. Then I Krazy glued it to the frame. Heckuva lot cheaper than $500. It did its job for a good year, but I knew it wouldn't pass the DC inspection.

Knowing that the inspection was coming up "sorta soon," (I was deliberately trying to avoid thinking about my debt to the DMV) I called the Toyota dealership again on Saturday. "Yup, we can get that. Nope, it's not $500. It's easy to install. The total will be $150." $150 is still not that great, but it's better than $500. So I picked up the part on Tuesday night. The Toyota lady seemed confused that I didn't want it installed, but she shrugged, "Ok, good luck." I left with my new mirror.

Wednesday morning the 27th, I drove to the Vehicle inspection site. I parked in a nearby gas station with my wrench and my new mirror, ready to replace it and removed the black plastic casing to reveal three easy screws. The morning was just heating up, the smog was beginning to feel thick, and the highway was beginning to give off waves of heat. At that moment a short, unkempt middle-aged African-American man came over and offered his assistance: "I fix my daughter's car like this, it is pretty easy..." He clearly knew what he was doing. I held the screws while his short fingers removed the offending mirror and found the plug for the motor. It took about 10 minutes and there I was with a new mirror. I'm sure it would have taken me longer, although I would have figured it out eventually. "Thank you!"I smiled, truly grateful for his time-saving help. His eyes were sad, "Could you help me out a little?" Of course I could. I gave him a ten. He tottered off to the gas station for a cup of coffee and a pack of cigarettes. I drove to the DMV and was first in line for inspection.

The inspector failed me and my newly mirrored Toyota for non-operational headlights. I tried to smile prettily and told him I would get it done RIGHT AWAY, but rules are rules. "Where can I get a headlight?" I asked. "Try Dura, up on Rhode Island Avenue."

I called Dura, "I need a headlight for a 2001 Corolla. Can I get one there?"

"Yes ma'am, we have a lot of those, and they're only $9.95."

"Can I put it in myself? Is it pretty easy?"

"Shouldn't be too hard, no, ma'am."

"Great! See you soon."

I drove up 395 and was on Rhode Island Ave in no time. The road and sidewalks widened and the houses began to look disheveled. The boring but approachable strip malls disappeared and the shops looked more...local. I passed churches on big lots, beauty parlors, and local donut shops. There it was, 2066. I parked and hobbled in in my white suit and fat walking boot. I must have looked conspicuous: Maurice behind the counter looked up kindly and said, "Are you here for the headlight?" He looked a lot younger than his voice sounded, and he held up the small package. I was amused by this and smiled, got out my credit card, and said, "Yup, that's me!" Maurice gave me tips on how to install the light and told me to "be sure and stay cool out there today!" I haven't gotten service that friendly in a long time.

I pulled my car into the shade and opened the hood. I poked around a while and decided that I had no idea how to install a headlight. So I walked across the parking lot into an AutoZone and asked if anyone there knew about Toyota headlights. The woman was clean and professional. "No, but you see that guy over there under the tree? His name's Joe. He'll help you out." I followed her finger through the heat waves undulating over the parking lot to see a tall, lean, black, black man sitting under the tree with a tall, large white man wearing a black t-shirt. They looked quite at home in their lawn chairs, not comfortable, but not uncomfortable. Just there, sitting still, in the heat. Something about the picture made me feel truly urban and summery, these two unlikely shapes reflecting through the heat, drinking cold beer under a sparse tree growing up and out in a city parking lot. The air smelled hot and urban, the sky was clear, soft blue with a brown haze hovering over the horizon. I think they had seen me looking forlorn in my white straight skirt and broken foot poking around cluelessly under the hood in the AutoZone parking lot in the hot sun. As I left the store, the tall black man casually approached me, his wiry muscles glistening in the hot sun. His eyes were deep and black above his chiseled cheekbones. He squinted at me.

"Whatchyou need help wit?"

"I need to replace a headlight and I've never done that before."

His expression didn't change, and he lead me back to my car. "I been working on cars for 42 years." Pause as he fingered the headlight under the hood. "It's the only thing I can DO, you know what I'm saying?" I nodded and expressed my respect for a good mechanic. "It's how I make my survival, hear me?" I nodded again as I squinted at him through my windshield. The headlights turned on and he closed the hood. "Now, you gonna pay for that sweetheart..." "Of course. Let me just go and get some cash." I asked the woman inside, "So Joe, how much to people usually tip him?" "Oh, five, ten." "Great, can I have these batteries and cash back for Joe?" "No problem." She was efficient and fast and friendly. I placed the ten in Joe's long, bony, ebony fingers as I left and thanked him again for his help. His expression didn't change, but he nodded, turned, and sauntered back to the lawn chair under the tree.

I passed the inspection and re-registered my car, easy as pie. Got to work before lunch. Breathed a few prayers of gratitude for the two men who helped me that morning. Wondered what the rest of their lives are like. Decided to return to Dura and AutoZone if ever I need another headlight.