Now That's Cold!

Last January a comet was visible in the California predawn sky from 4 a.m. to 5 a.m. Craig woke me up early one weekend to see it. In a record cold snap for the Central Valley, temperatures had plummeted to the low twenties. We dressed warmly, but when we slipped out the door the cold make me suck in a quick breath. I wound my scarf around my nose and pushed my hands into my gloves as we trudged out to the end of our street. The freeway left enough open sky that we thought we should catch a glimpse, and a picture if we could fumble with the camera bag through our gloves. I paced back and forth as Craig strained his eyes toward the east. Our breath, normally barely visible, made large swirling clouds and coated the insides of our scarves with moisture. We stayed out until well after sunrise and the comet never appeared. I marveled at the way the cold insinuated itself into cracks of my clothing: the cuffs around my wrists, the overlap at the waist, my ankles. Next year, it’ll be cold like this all the time, I thought, wondering how it would affect me.

“There is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes,” Craig quotes the old Norwegian saying to me often.

“I suppose the people who are forced to eat lutefisk all winter because it’s too cold to gather fresh food should know,” I retort. On the whole, I have found the saying to be true. In a cold climate, one needs to put more thought into proper clothing. I still forget sometimes and carry my coat over my arm as I’m descending the stairs to leave work. Then the cold wave hits me as I enter the foyer, and I juggle the stuff in my arms so I can put my coat on. Even the thirty second walk to my car would be uncomfortable without it.

How much clothing is appropriate for cold weather? This question still plagues mothers everywhere. Gloves and hats are not really necessary in California. They go in and out of fashion, and if they are “out,” then students will not wear them for any price. Students arrive at school every morning fresh from a daily argument, insisting that their clothing is perfectly appropriate and they would be consigned to geekdom if they wore a single stitch more. They pay a high price for their audacity, huddling together in forlorn, miserable groups during outdoor breaks. Then they’ll come inside at the bell to whine that the classroom is not warm enough for winter weather. No rebuttal was necessary for me last year. I’d just point at their feet to silence any complaints. With morning temperatures around forty degrees, it is considered rebellious for teenagers to wear flip flops to school.

Californians comment on how cold it is, and complain about the inconvenience of forty degrees just as much as Kentuckians exclaim over ten degrees. On a California winter morning, a layer of frost has collected on car windows, and hurried businessmen take out their credit cards to scrape it off because they haven’t bothered to buy an ice scraper. I’ve even heard of one bright soul who would clear his car of ice by pouring warm water on his windows. This scheme could only be dreamed up in California. Kentuckians know that when cold glass warms too quickly, it cracks. I imagine this man visiting relatives in a colder area and herding them outside to see his failsafe method for clearing windows. He dramatically pours the water, expecting a chorus of ooh’s and ahh’s, perhaps even a suggestion that he quit his job and patent a warm-water car sprayer. Instead, his family covers their eyes and hits the ground as the windshield shatters.

Kentucky cars parked outside have a veneer of ice, not frost, and icicles form on the front grilles and stay all day. On the road, it looks like the cars drive by with white faces and long, pointy teeth. I am grateful to have a garage. Our electric opener sticks in the cold weather, but it’s better than contending with early morning battery trouble and doors that are frozen shut. I marvel that many houses here have no garages, or only a single stall. Californians love garages, but don’t know what to do with them. They may have four stalls, but cars are parked outside because the garage is stuffed with junk. If a Kentuckian is fortunate enough to have a garage, it is definitely put to good use.

I bought a thermometer last week, tiring at last of checking weather.com every time I wanted to know how cold it was. I walked up the aisle at Lowe’s, selecting a plain digital model that suctions onto a window. On Sunday I checked the temperature as we headed to church.

“It’s 48 degrees outside! That’s not so bad,” I piped, selecting a coat.

Craig sidled up and peered at the digital screen. “That’s 4.8 degrees.”

I moved closer, perceiving that there was, indeed, a decimal. I frowned. “Do people still go out when it’s this cold, or do they just stay inside all day and stare at their thermometers? Maybe next year we’ll want a spiffier model that comes with Celsius converter, barometer, and rain gauge.”

“Yes, we can still leave the house. It’ll be the first time you’ve felt that kind of cold since you were little,” Craig said.

As we drove through our neighborhood, I noticed a fresh sprinkling of large crystals on the street. I’ve come to recognize them as salt, not snow, though at first they looked like the result of a flash hailstorm. The cars gradually crush the crystals, forming lacy patterns on the roads. It adds to the “winter wonderland” ambiance just as much as it keeps the roads from icing over.

Crossing the parking lot, I pushed my hands into my coat pockets. Exposed skin hurts at such low temperatures. My nose began to throb as if it had been hit. I slapped Craig on the arm, urging him to walk faster. My legs felt the cold air that bit through my pants.

The next time a comet appears, on some cold January day, I’ll be ready to throw on my heavy coat and scarf and trudge outside to see it. I’ll remember last year and wonder how I ever thought 20 degrees was cold.