Cold, Cold, Cold

Another decade, another polar vortex.

For the first time since Madonna, Prince and Bruce Springsteen ruled the pop charts, I was made privy to extremely cold temperatures. Wednesday, January 30^th greeted me with temps reading minus twenty-five (F), while Thursday morning—the 31st—revealed they had sunk even lower, to minus twenty-nine (F).

Ah, winter. The leaden air mass that sits upon us like a cruel older sibling evokes memories.

I share them here.

The eighties were cold. And no, that isn't a tacit reference to the Reagan administration.

For reasons known only to itself, the weather pattern shifted and brought Arctic cold to the upper Midwest on three separate occasions during the decade: 1982, 1983 and 1985. In a cosmological fusion of the real estate maxim location, location, location and the more-general one that states timing is everything, I was able to participate in all three.

Arctic cold is extremely efficient. It does in a few minutes what non-Arctic cold takes an hour to do. Sadistically, it freezes and then numbs one's flesh, providing a prickly burn as it does so. Accounts that include phrases like “a thousand tiny razors” are not far off.

Add wind and the process is exponentially accelerated. The sensations are deepened. Accountants steeped in cost-benefit analysis applaud wildly. It is very, very efficient.

My first immersion experience with Arctic air occurred on January 16, 1982. I had taken it upon myself to head into the city for some record shopping. Being young, I instinctively knew the emergency weather warnings being issued about dangerously cold temperatures did not apply to me.

They were for other people.

Dressed as I would for any other winter's day, I set off downtown. All was well until the trip home.

Waiting on the Fullerton El platform (so named because this particular conveyance is elevated above street level, thereby exposing patrons to the full effect of any and all wind), I became aware of a painful, incessant chill.

Surprisingly, the sneakers I wore did little to insulate my feet. My ears were on fire thanks to the ability polar breezes have for reducing human skin to pin cushions.

At least I hadn't inconvenienced myself by wearing a hat.

One of the more amusing qualities of Arctic cold is its ability to provoke profanity. As I stood on the El platform completely exposed to the minus forty-degree wind chill, I could do little but hop up and down and spit “Fuck!” from between my clenched teeth.

Yes, it was cold.

And thanks to a perversion of generosity, the fun wasn't over yet.

Since this was Saturday, the bus that would normally take me to within a block of my home was not in service. Which meant a one-mile walk into the same westerly winds I had combated on the El platform.

No alcoholic, no junkie and no crackhead ever went to the lengths to satiate their addiction than I did that day.

God smiles on us in many ways. On this day, he—or she—had decided to teach a young man about vulnerability. About exposed skin's sensitivity to polar temperatures. About hats.

While I had successfully avoided the social embarrassment that goes hand in hand with having the beautiful young women who frequented record stores on Saturday mornings from pointing and laughing at my hat hair, I had risked permanent (and painful) skin damage.

After arriving home, I inspected my ears for the small, white patches that indicate frostbite. Finding none, I dove into bed. I minimized pillow-to-ear contact for fear they would snap and break off.

There were other experiences, most notably December 24, 1983 (minus twenty-three with steady twenty MPH winds) and January 20, 1985, which bottomed out at twenty-seven below with similar wind speeds.

But chastened by my El platform experience, I limited my exposure. If I wasn't attending a holiday party or periodically starting my car, I was inside. The way God intended. So instructive was the Arctic cold that I only needed to suffer it once. 

Regrettably, Jack Daniels, Stolichnaya and Heineken couldn't say the same.