Winter in Chicago can be a nasty thing.
Granted, recent years have featured mild, even tame, winters, with one or two snowstorms per season and maybe a few scattered nights of genuine, Arctic-level cold. Last winter, though, was something of a return to what I grew up with in the '60s and '70s, with deeper drifts, harder freezes and winds that sliced through even the thickest seasonal armor.
The solstice was just yesterday, but already it's been harsh here, with moderate throughout December, mostly noticeable because the city has cut back on snow removal and streets are remaining snow-covered longer. (The city denies this, of course, claiming that they're doing just as good a job as ever of keeping the roads plowed and salted. Anyone who's driven the streets for even the shortest of distances or has attempted to cross an intersection on foot without landing on his or her ass knows otherwise.)
Yesterday was brutally cold--the temperature during the daylight hours didn't even tickle zero, much less kiss it. Mom called at 8:30 a.m. to cancel our dinner that night. "Please don't go out, honey," she said. Who am I to argue with such sage advice?
Naturally, I went out anyway.
It wasn't for very long and it wasn't very far--just to Walgreens and back (hey, I had a headache and no Tylenol in the house)--but because of the extreme cold, it was necessary to suit up properly. On went the Texas Steer boots. On went the the Christmas scarf. On went the knit stocking pullover hat--not nearly as fashionable as as my gray tweed cap, but far less likely to be blown off of my head when walking into the 20+ mph winds. I slid the parka over my shoulders and flipped the hood onto my head.
Last, but far from least, I pulled out the boxing gloves.
The boxing gloves are not, as you may have already surmised, literal boxing gloves, but rather leather-clad mittens that used to belong to my dad. I don't know when he bought them--whether it was during his years when he worked as a switchman on the railroad or sometime after--but after he died, they were passed on to me, along with his winter coat, which has reached such a state of fragility that it can only be worn once in a great while. The boxing gloves, however, are in fine shape and could be worn every day, if I so chose.
I don't choose to, though, because it's usually not necessary to break out such polar gear. The boxing gloves are thick and heavy; it's virtually impossible to pick up anything when you're wearing them. And they're not really necessary for the average December day in Chicago, where a standard pair of woolen gloves will more than suffice against ordinary chill.
But on a night like last night, when the winds did howl and the snow did blow, or a morning like this morning, when the sun, bright as it was, offered no warmth, the boxing gloves came in awfully handy (pun intended).
Thanks again, Dad.
3 comments:
Those gloves look...DAMN TOUGH! It's really great when sons are left with things their dads used and cherished. I have some vintage cuff links my dad wore on special occasions, some of his monogrammed pocket kerchiefs, and two fedoras (which were too small for my head until I lost so much weight a few years back), and I love them all.
I stayed indoors that day. But I agree. The streets are nowhere near as cleared as previous winters. I was stuck twice in the snow today. TWICE! A nice man named Dave tried to help me, but besides my car mats, I had no winter emergency kit. That will be remedied during my next trip to Target. I was finally dug out by a nice man named Noel and Glen. TWICE in one day. Once when I was pulling into the spot and landed in a cavern and the second while I was leaving said spot and landed in a sink hole. Glen was fortunately there diggin' his own car out the second time. His help has left me forever grateful and huge plate of Christmas treats will be making their way to his belly next time I am at the studio. The boxing gloves look hearty and warm and I am so glad you have them to keep your paws toasty.
See oyu soon. Stay warm.
I fell on my ass twice yesterday trying to dig my sister's car out of the snow so we could put chains on the tires. We got stick in the middle of the road and would have remained there if a truck driver from the nursery across from us hadn't dug us out and helped put the chains on. Two of our neighbors drove by without so much as a "Everything okay here?" One of them, in fact, drove by twice.
The city may not plow as often as it should, but Chicagoans don't leave their neighbors stranded in the snow. You're beautiful, Oregon, but your people kind of suck.
Last year I actually broke down and bought a winter-ish coat. Up until then, all I wore during the long Oregon winter was a rain coat.
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