By George
Eleon Shuman
Last
weekend, sort of as a joke, sort of not, my mom sent me a pair of long johns.
You know, thermal underwear. I haven’t had a pair of those since way before Reagan
won the presidency, but they haven’t changed a bit.
Mom will be
102 next month and is spending her first winter in many years in the north,
specifically, in central Maine. She is very sensitive to the cold. Mom knows
through our nightly phone conversations, that for the past several years,
winters have not been fun for me, either. (Actually, the past seventy or so
haven’t been fun for me, {I think I liked the first one.} but these recent winters
have been even worse.) My circulation is probably not great, I guess. Either
that or my body is just desperately trying to assume room temperature.
I try not to
complain too much about the cold, but it’s hard to hide how I’m feeling when
I’m hiding everything else up to my nose in several layers of blankets and
comforters, as I recline in a fetal position on the couch; tough guy that I am.
Not that
many years ago members of a certain segment of our country’s political class
were terribly upset by what they referred to as global warming. You know, with
the melting polar ice caps as proof and everything. Personally, I never thought
these people were right, but I was secretly hoping they were. Longer, warmer
summers seemed like a good thing to me, and they still do. Besides, I’m not
anxious to visit any polar ice caps anyway.
To me, the
proof of global warming is much closer to home. It’s actually right out under
my carport in the form of a big, slightly rusting chunk of metal called a snow
blower. I must admit to having a love-hate relationship with that thing. I’m
glad I have it, but I kind of hate using it or even getting too close to it.
Nearly every time I touch it something seems to fall off; (I mean off of it,
not off of me. Not yet anyway.) Every time I use it, it seems louder and
clunkier than it did the last time.
My barometer
of global warming, climate change, whatever you want to call it, since the
politicians keep changing the term because they really have no idea what’s
going on in the world, weather-wise or otherwise, is this. I just keep track,
loosely, of the number of times each winter that I have to crank the old thing
up and do the driveway. Truthfully, for the past three winters or so, I’ve only
used it three or four times each. And yes, I mean here in Vermont.
Unfortunately,
this winter is proving to be a little more ‘traditional’ up here, this year.
The massive storm that everyone in the US is painfully aware of experiencing
earlier this week, might have been unusual for some areas, but has just been a
reminder of a ‘regular’ winter here. Monday, I watched the snow fall all day. It
would start and stop, and several times I almost worked up my courage to dig
myself out from under the couch blankets so I could get our and our neighbor’s
driveways out from under that blanket of white stuff. Finally, when the storm
really seemed to be almost over, I got up and got to spend a few hours of
quality time brushing the snow from my face, glasses, jacket, and nether
regions, which I won’t discuss further.
Then, the
snow started up again, allowing me to have all that fun, all over again, on
Tuesday. What a wonderful surprise it was to learn that my phone was wrong, and
it wasn’t partly sunny at all outside. No, it wasn’t.
I will end
this time of whining with this. In truth, God has always been incredibly good
to me and so has my family. I have a snow blower, which is much better than a
shovel, and I have a big old warm home with lots of comforters on the couches.
I also have a brand-new set of long johns, which came in very handy this week.
Thanks Mom.
