Newsflash, right? I know. I came to this realization this morning, after parking my car on the roof of the parking garage at the Education Service Center where I work, as I do every morning. This morning was different, because it was 21 degrees Fahrenheit, with a wind chill of about 8, according to Mark Murray, my morning weatherman on KGSR, "Radio Austin." I think it was the way I hugged myself against the cold, holding the collar of my coat with one hand. I felt like Jessica Tandy, or someone.
Oh, how the mighty Northeasterner has fallen!
When I was a boy, my brother and I couldn't wait until it snowed. We would beg our father to drive us over to Knollwood Country Club, where we would join our friends, Miki, Eddie, Richie and Guy for some good, old-fashioned reckless sledding. (The hill seems enormous in my memory, but of course when I visit it from time to time, I'm always shocked to see that it's more of an incline than a hill.) It didn't matter how cold, wet or icy it was; we were happy just to be outside in the air with each other. We threw snowballs, built ice forts -- all the stuff you'd expect from strong children used to the rigors of a New York winter.
One day Miki, my brother Mike and I were making our way up Whitewood Road, crossing from the Forberts' front yard to the Venuttis' (a favorite crossing point over to our street, Hartford Lane), passing a miniature football to each other. I passed the ball to Mike, and it was a beautiful spiral. It would have been a perfect lead pass, dropping just into the outstretched hands of my receiver -- would have been, had it not been for the sheet of ice that had formed on top of the snow. As he reached out for the ball, my brother's feet came out from under him, and his head went straight back and struck the ice with a resounding "crack." Because of the position of his arms out in front of him, reaching forward, he really had no opportunity to break the fall, so the back of his skull took the brunt of the force of the sudden drop.
When we asked him if he was all right, he replied that he was, which gave me and Miki permission to laugh about what had happened: "Oh man, you should have seen it! Your feet went straight up in the air!" My brother laughed, but then looked puzzled. "Wait, tell me again what happened." When he said this the third time, he began to cry. Miki and I exchanged a look and immediately stepped up the pace to my house. The pediatrician confirmed that he had sustained a concussion, and my parents spent that night waking my brother up every hour.
The point of the story? We were undeterred by the incident. We were back out on the ice in no time. Rain, sleet, snow, concussions -- none of it stopped us. We were not to be stopped.
Unlike some of my other friends -- Miki in particular -- I never took to skiing as I got older. I did do a lot of what I called "boot skiing," going from class to class at Syracuse University, in Central New York. Due to where the town is situated in relation to the Finger Lakes, it gets a ton of snow. It gets so much snow that when a reporter braved the elements earlier this winter, when the region got a particularly brutal pummeling of snowfalls, one after the other, he couldn't get a decent interview. Everyone he spoke to responded the same way: "This is Syracuse. It's just winter in Syracuse." The poor guy had no story. He and his producer had to pack up their shit and go home. (They actually ended up doing a pretty funny story about snow being a non-story, even nine feet in a week, or whatever it was.)
The worst cold I ever endured was the night I slept outside the Carrier Dome, waiting to buy tickets to see the Police on February 4, 1984. I was twenty years old and impervious to anything other than the awesome rocking power of "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic" and "So Lonely." We ended up with incredible seats, on the floor, with an unobstructed view of the stage, thanks to a large area just in front of us where we danced the entire time. Worth freezing my ass off in a cheap sleeping bag? Oh, hell yes.
I'm not saying I've come to the point where I'm ready for the early-bird special and white loafers in Boca. Not quite there yet. But I've become spoiled living in Central Texas, with its (normally) moderate winters. 21 degrees and rolling, controlled blackouts, in order to prevent the Travis County grid from collapsing are things I could do without. I dug my winter coat out of the mothballs, and I'd just assume bury it back again. So 70-degree weather, I'm ready when you are. This freeze business is something I'm just getting too old for, frankly.
Now where's my toddy and slippers?
Oh, how the mighty Northeasterner has fallen!
When I was a boy, my brother and I couldn't wait until it snowed. We would beg our father to drive us over to Knollwood Country Club, where we would join our friends, Miki, Eddie, Richie and Guy for some good, old-fashioned reckless sledding. (The hill seems enormous in my memory, but of course when I visit it from time to time, I'm always shocked to see that it's more of an incline than a hill.) It didn't matter how cold, wet or icy it was; we were happy just to be outside in the air with each other. We threw snowballs, built ice forts -- all the stuff you'd expect from strong children used to the rigors of a New York winter.
One day Miki, my brother Mike and I were making our way up Whitewood Road, crossing from the Forberts' front yard to the Venuttis' (a favorite crossing point over to our street, Hartford Lane), passing a miniature football to each other. I passed the ball to Mike, and it was a beautiful spiral. It would have been a perfect lead pass, dropping just into the outstretched hands of my receiver -- would have been, had it not been for the sheet of ice that had formed on top of the snow. As he reached out for the ball, my brother's feet came out from under him, and his head went straight back and struck the ice with a resounding "crack." Because of the position of his arms out in front of him, reaching forward, he really had no opportunity to break the fall, so the back of his skull took the brunt of the force of the sudden drop.
When we asked him if he was all right, he replied that he was, which gave me and Miki permission to laugh about what had happened: "Oh man, you should have seen it! Your feet went straight up in the air!" My brother laughed, but then looked puzzled. "Wait, tell me again what happened." When he said this the third time, he began to cry. Miki and I exchanged a look and immediately stepped up the pace to my house. The pediatrician confirmed that he had sustained a concussion, and my parents spent that night waking my brother up every hour.
The point of the story? We were undeterred by the incident. We were back out on the ice in no time. Rain, sleet, snow, concussions -- none of it stopped us. We were not to be stopped.
Unlike some of my other friends -- Miki in particular -- I never took to skiing as I got older. I did do a lot of what I called "boot skiing," going from class to class at Syracuse University, in Central New York. Due to where the town is situated in relation to the Finger Lakes, it gets a ton of snow. It gets so much snow that when a reporter braved the elements earlier this winter, when the region got a particularly brutal pummeling of snowfalls, one after the other, he couldn't get a decent interview. Everyone he spoke to responded the same way: "This is Syracuse. It's just winter in Syracuse." The poor guy had no story. He and his producer had to pack up their shit and go home. (They actually ended up doing a pretty funny story about snow being a non-story, even nine feet in a week, or whatever it was.)
The worst cold I ever endured was the night I slept outside the Carrier Dome, waiting to buy tickets to see the Police on February 4, 1984. I was twenty years old and impervious to anything other than the awesome rocking power of "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic" and "So Lonely." We ended up with incredible seats, on the floor, with an unobstructed view of the stage, thanks to a large area just in front of us where we danced the entire time. Worth freezing my ass off in a cheap sleeping bag? Oh, hell yes.
I'm not saying I've come to the point where I'm ready for the early-bird special and white loafers in Boca. Not quite there yet. But I've become spoiled living in Central Texas, with its (normally) moderate winters. 21 degrees and rolling, controlled blackouts, in order to prevent the Travis County grid from collapsing are things I could do without. I dug my winter coat out of the mothballs, and I'd just assume bury it back again. So 70-degree weather, I'm ready when you are. This freeze business is something I'm just getting too old for, frankly.
Now where's my toddy and slippers?
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