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.

Land of My Fathers

My grandfather was tall and gentle and moved as old men move, with slightly bent knees and a lanky body of boney angles. But he had not withered as some old men do; his former strength was not hidden under years of alcohol and cigarettes. It was still tangible -- his hands sat on his lap like sleeping jaguars, full of lean control. His old skin tugged around his ears and shoulders and his movements were slow, but his eyes were still sharp and blue, like my father’s eyes, and his cheekbones were still commanding. His speech was slow and simple, as if he were always remembering something and trying to make sense of it, and his way of ending with a slight shake of his head and a soft “huh!” of a laugh buffered his words with kindness. Talking to him over a cup of coffee and a bologna sandwich, I got the idea that he had never been rushed, that he had approached life deliberately, cleanly, with a vague distrust of emotion but a very real sense of duty and family. And I also felt that if I ever wanted anyone to feel loved and honored and respected, it was him, who had raised his children in the Wisconsin winters and driven his cement truck every day and built himself a humble, honest reputation.

I have seen a few pictures of him and his young family circa 1955. They looked their parts; my father as the tallest and eldest of 5, 6, 7 siblings, standing straight and bright. There is something about him that is perpetually so innocent and so strong. He was the eldest of 7 on the 1950s Midwest farm, and seems to be the incarnation of everything I ever vaguely believed was good about America: honest, hardworking, protective, tall and strong, silent. The old photos of him on the farmhouse seem almost manufactured to create this impression: My dad's skinny kid frame clad in plaid flannel shirts; his dewy calf eyes under a limp 1950s hairdo, parted precisely on the side, cut close above his ears; a one-room schoolhouse; toys made of wood; the huge, loving frame of his father, also clad in plaid.

It is not a family of lavish tribute or gregarious compliments. We are a quiet people who see no need to offer excessive commentary. We are wary of telephones and intimate conversations. We prefer typewriters and books and silence. Any praise and encouragement, therefore, is simple, and the plain honesty of it moves me to tears sometimes. My aging grandfather and my middle-aged father, a successful doctor with a happy family, walking through the Wisconsin fields together, slowly and surely, for both were familiar with the terrain. Their powerful frames fit the landscape beautifully and even their light hair ruffling in the wind echoed the waves of the grains in the fields. “You know,” Grandpa said slowly, in his crackling voice, “I’m proud of you.” And my heart breaks with the pride and humility when I think of those words because I knew that these laconic men would never say more than that, and that the very absence of extra words makes the sentiment weigh heavy.

His funeral took place in the winter, on Thanksgiving, which seemed final and cold, an appropriate time to be buried and move on the warmer, friendlier lands. Yesterday's snow laced in doilied patterns across the stiff brown grass and the speckled sun shifted in a layer above the lace, giving the whole cemetary a rich, deep aura: layer upon layer of nature's patterns, from the nubby black frozen dirt through the lace up the rough tree trunks to the roof of waving pine needles and a few dead brown leaves languidly waving in the breeze, hanging from their branches with golden threads. The watercolored gray sky was thin with Wisconsin winter cold.

His children were there, and his close friends, and a man with a guitar. His sons dug the hole; his eldest gave the simple benediction. It is always hard to imagine the loss felt in others’ lives, and we gathered in possibly the largest gathering of Ranges I have seen in my 25 years, ate a post-Thanksgiving feast, talked about everything, and watched silly TV shows. We all knew the reason we were there, and we all felt the solemnity of it, but it was joyous and encouraging to see all sizes, ages, experiences, from his widow to his 2 year old great-grandson, connected only by thin lines of blood, marriage, and love, here remembering the man who had fathered us all.