Winter Weary

One harsh, freezing winter morning in Boston's Back Bay neighborhood, the streets filled with police cars, lights flashing and sirens wailing - someone had found a body in a doorway not far from our little apartment - an old wino, homeless, dirty, and dead.  The coroner's wagon came and took him away, just an anonymous old drunk whose time had run out.  The police made a half hearted attempt to identify him then moved on to the business of serious crime.  There was a war on and they had better things to do.


As seasons go, New England winters can be bone chilling and uncommonly cruel, especially to those who call the city streets home.  Our's was a neighborhood of old brownstones, delicatessens and shabby laundromats, used bookstores and coffee shops.  The population was a mix of students of all ages, artists and slumlords, the working poor and the young, upwardly mobile - Northeastern was right around the corner, Copley Square just a stone's throw to the north and the victory gardens of the Fens within walking distance.  In spring and summer, the streets were alive with sights and sounds but come winter, we retreated to our separate nests, closeting ourselves with quilts and space heaters, praying for early warm weather and venturing outside only for the direst of necessities.  The cold seeped in anyway, taking advantage of cracked window panes and uneven thresholds. Icy winds whipped through the alleyways and snow accumulated waist high on the stoops and sidewalks.  The city froze and often came to a standstill in winter's fierce grip - public transportation was haphazard at best and the confining weather led to cabin fever, bouts of depression and bodies in doorways.  January and February were the most desolate months, each day a grim and gruesome affront to the senses, a full frontal assault of our winter weary bodies.  Spring, we thought, would never break through - we would never be warm again.  And then one day it was suddenly March, then April, and miraculously, the siege was over.


I was married on an April day, with both families in attendance, in a small chapel at Longfellow's Wayside Inn, in Sudbury, a genteel and casually wealthy Boston suburb.  Thoughts of winter and bodies in doorways were forgotten - there was sunshine and music and the sound of the grist mill in the background - being young and in love makes for perfect days.


I used to wonder if we'd stayed the course in New England, toughed out those cruel and unforgiving winters and kept our independence, if things might've lasted - or were we destined to go in opposite directions no matter the geography.  Like the name of the old wino frozen to death in the doorway, the list of things we'll never know is endless.