Too Cold To Snow

The morning is dim and cloudy gray - there was a brief but chilling smattering of snow during the night - and I wake thinking that my decision to move south was sound enough but incomplete.  Looking out at the frozen crepe myrtle and frost covered grass, I wonder if I shouldn't have gone a little further.  It's a too cold to snow kind of morning, as my daddy might've said - every breath sends a wave of arctic chill into my lungs and the dogs waste no time being curious, they're out and back in in a matter of seconds.  The small brown dog trembles with cold and rushes for the bedroom, not even waiting for the accustomed biscuit, while the other two - bigger and made of sterner stuff - trot hastily inside and settle by heating vents.  It's tricky maintaining your dignity while freezing.

Too cold to snow, I think dismally, how does that even make sense?

I can see my daddy - practically mummified in layers - thermal socks and long underwear, cable knit sweaters and a snug wool cap pulled over his ears, bright mittens and an oversized scarf.  He would pull a chair close to the fire and hunker down beneath multiple blankets while my mother alternately laughed and scolded.  It seemed as if all their differences could be summed up according to the thermostat - he was always too cold and she was always too hot - they never agreed on what the temperature should be and were only rarely able to reach a compromise.  Even now it's hard to imagine a more constant or enduring conflict.   

In his younger days, my daddy was up after a blizzard, whistling and shoveling in the pre-dawn hours.  He would methodically clear the front steps, then the walk, the sidewalk, and finally the driveway.  Digging out the car was cold, cruel work and for countless winters he did it alone until he was finally persuaded that there was wisdom and efficiency in a gas powered snow blower.  We trudged to Sears and Roebuck in Porter Square in the midst of an early and reasonably mild storm and purchased a bright, shiny red Kenmore blower and a plastic gas container.   By the time we were up the following morning, the entire yard had been cleared and the freshly made snowdifts were hip-high.  My daddy, looking very much like Nanook of the North, was standing on the sidewalk, chatting easily with the neighbors and triumphantly spreading salt and de-icer like birdseed.  He never picked up another snow shovel.

Here in the south, the idea of a snow shovel is fortunately laughable but the cold still comes.  I leave the house and an intake of freezing air settles in my nose, throat, and lungs.  My gloved fingers tingle and there's always that shining moment of terror when I wonder if the car will start and if the sun will ever shine again.  It may be too cold to snow, but it's cold enough for me and mine.