Citizens of 4F, January 14, 2014

The 4F commuter bus presents a pretty representative sample of the Minneapolis demographic from the hours of 7:00 am to 9:00, and from 4:00 to 7:00 pm each day—the rush hour windows. In the morning, for example, the passengers on any given bus might include:  high school students wearing school letterman jackets as they head to De Lasalle high school; students from the art and design college who often defiantly omit hats and scarves even on very cold days; day laborers with worn, slightly grimy canvas jackets headed for the temp labor agencies on Lake Street; attractive young men and women in nice clothes,  eagerly pursuing entry level white-collar jobs in their hopes of one day becoming members of the last type of bus commuter—the older executives with long woolen overcoats and expensive leather gloves and briefcases, carrying Wall Street Journals tucked under their arms.

On any given morning, about 60% of the faces are familiar to me; the rest are infrequent or one-time riders, on the bus that morning because a car has failed to start in the frigid weather, or because they're riding to connect with the light rail train line running to the airport.

Fairly often, you also see one or two or even three members of another demographic—adults who appear to have some kind mild disabilities and special needs—adults who are traveling either from family homes or group residential facilities to occupational jobs in downtown. A friend of mine who managed one of these non-profit organizations that help find jobs for special-needs adults has told me that most do indeed commute into downtown via bus each morning. This morning on the 4F,  there was a new passenger fitting this demographic, who I think of as "Charles."

Charles sits at the front of the bus, gripping the side rail tightly with one hand while the other hand pinches his bus transfer with the thumb and forefinger. Charles is about 60 or 65 years old, with a two-day stubble beard that is not a fashion statement. His large, aviator-rimmed glasses don't fit very well and they keep sliding down his nose. At every street corner, Charles nervously leans up out of his seat to check the street sign. In the end, he'll do this for 55 consecutive blocks, since he doesn't get off until the heart of downtown. Periodically he looks up across the aisle at the row of lighted advertisement panels lining the top of the bus; he shifts his head up and down, trying to navigate the line in his bifocals, uncertain of which magnification to use for reading at this distance.

Charles wears new jeans, a crisp flannel plaid shirt, Nike tennis shoes, and a green nylon parka that is vaguely military in style, like the parkas you see on workers on outposts at the south pole. It is the type clothing that few people of Charles' age would pick for themselves, and it hints that Charles has somebody in his life that cares enough to pick out clothes for him to wear. Perhaps it is some kind of professional guardian, but maybe he's lucky enough to have a family member who serves this role. His jacket is wide open, though, and periodically it slides down his arms and back so that he has to shrug it up into place again. He doesn't seem to know anybody else on the bus, and as new passengers board, he looks at each of them with great interest.

When special-needs adults ride the bus, they almost always sit at the front of the bus, sometimes looking a little fearful, especially when the bus ride has not become a routine habit. Many years ago, I recall that kids with special needs riding the school bus always huddled in the front of the bus, too. There was a reason for it then, because kids can be profoundly unkind, and a special-needs kid who found himself at the back of the bus might experience some type of teasing or torment at the hands of other, some yelling the word "retard." We tend to romanticize the qualities of children, but the truth is that they are often cruel, and it's fortunate that as a species we tend to become kinder and more compassionate as we grow older. I find myself wondering if the reason Charles and others like him still ride at the front of the bus as grown adults is because they have ingrained memories of those earlier, harsher times.  We are all creatures of habit, and we all relive old experiences in our behavior without even really knowing that we're doing it.

As the bus pulls up to his stop and Charles starts to stand, his jacket is wide open, and a nearby woman starts to reach out to help zip it up for him. Then she catches herself and leans back with obvious embarrassment; she's probably not certain whether such an overture would seem welcome to Charles, or insulting or threatening.

So Charles' parka hangs wide open, and twice slips down his shoulders to his elbows as he trudges up 5th Street in an easterly direction. He's quickly covered with snow that looks like powdered sugar. Blowing snow is falling heavily, but fortunately the temperatures have moderated this week, and instead of -22, the air is a relatively normal 25 degrees.

Provide his walk is not too far, Charles will be fine.

50 Shades of Dental Floss

At 8:00 am yesterday morning, I had already taken my eye-glasses off and set them on the tray affixed to the dental chair by the time Mistress Veronica, the Dental Dominatrix entered the room, so I could not see her clearly. She was little more than a shadow, an apparition, though I knew she was there, somewhere behind me in the room. For several moments, Veronica did nothing but rustle the papers in my file, deliberately building tension and anticipation in the room. Finally she spoke:

"Ah Mercurious, you've been a bad, bad boy. I see that it's been many, many months since our last session together. "

I could say nothing to this. She was absolutely right; I had neglected my twice-annual checkups for a couple of years, and I deserved to be scolded. Severely. 

"Much has changed since you've last been in my chair," she said. "We have several new....instruments that will seem new to you, and perhaps....a little frightening at first."  As if to punctuate this, she "accidentally" dragged to point of one of her sharp tools across my bare forearm where I was already gripping the arm of the chair. It was not enough to draw blood—she was nothing if not an expert in timing—but enough to give a hint of what was to come.  "Now, we will begin," she said, her voice a throaty command.

She had spoken truthfully about the new dental tools. I am a very poor dental patient, so it is typical for me to close my eyes rather tightly while having my teeth cleaned, or examined, or (God forbid) having actual dental repair work done. Nevertheless, even with eyes closed I could very clearly sense every one of the new dental innovations she had mentioned.

First, there was some sort of miniature hydraulic scissor jack that they now use to pry the upper and

lower jaws apart to hold your mouth open, making it easier for the dental dominatrix to work. Veronica used this accessory with expert precision, forcing my jaws open to the pinnacle, pausing long enough for me to relax, then punching the hydraulics just enough to cause small tears of pain form in the corner of my eyes. She stopped just before my jaw came unhinged entirely.

Secondly, there is a new kind of speculum used to draw the side of the mouth open in a direction at right angles to the vertical hydraulic jack. In combination, these two devices splay your mouth in a manner that leaves you utterly, defenselessly, at the mercy and power of the hygienist. No safe words can be uttered in this position. 

The actual tools used to clean the teeth have changed too. Where once there seemed to be only two different tools used to scrape your teeth, there now appear to be at least fifteen devices of various levels of pointy sharpness.The cleaning is now culminated by a very sharp, very long probe that can extend down into the crevice between teeth far enough to reach the bottom of the tooth root, feeling around the bottom to test the integrity of the nerve root itself. Veronica notably sighed with satisfaction when this probe left me gasping and sweating, verifying that my tooth roots were operating correctly.

There is also a type of water sand-blaster now, similar to the type of water cannon used to extract gold ore from the mountainsides of Alaska. This must be used carefully, I was told, as it sometimes dislodges metal fillings and can tear off dental crowns and force them down your gullet. To keep you from downing, they give you a small, powerful vacuum cleaner that can either suck out water before it reaches your lungs, or give you little hickeys on the inside of your mouth; the choice is yours. Diabolically, they don't instruct you in the use of this tool; you learn on the fly.

Finally, the quality of dental floss itself has changed, as it is no longer a soft white thread, but now consists of very fine and very sharp tungsten steel razor wire that can slice off any gum tissue that interferes with the thread's path to your jaw bone. This makes for a very different experience as the hygienist does her final check.

As the cleaning ended and I opened my eyes, I realized that

Mistress Veronica had also been making a dental porn film with a small, high-def cameral that was exploring my previous fillings and crown fittings, projecting them onto a 50-inch screen across the room. This, I was told, would give the dentist himself a much better way to look for new cavities and examine the condition of old fillings. Even without my glasses on, the porn film made me blush—a live-action montage of glistening, pink. slippery flesh, glimmering in ultra high definition. There were crevices there that I never knew existed, and which should never be viewed in public. Slyly, Vernica froze the live-action film on a particularly graphic and shocking still-action shot. I looked away in shame and disgust.

But at last my session was over, and I put on my eye-glasses. I was startled to see, though, that Veronica had vanished. In her place was a second hygienist, a rather sweet looking young woman who could not have been more than 30 years old. Also gone were the impressive new dental instruments. Instead, there were a selection of rather traditional metal picks on the tray across my lap. Mysteriously, they had also replaced the blood-soaked bib that had been soaking up my bodily fluids with a brand new, clean white bib. Interestingly, I noticed that the new hygienist had a voice that sounded almost exactly the same as Veronica—sisters perhaps?

But the new youngster had much of her sister's wickedness. As a tall dark shadow fell across the room behind me, she punched a button and started up the live action dental porn film, causing me to blush again.

"Mercurious," she said. "It's now time for the dentist to do his....examination.

"I believe you already know Dr. Sado."

Geezers in the New Year (with an Emphasis on Food and Sleep)

Mercurious:  “So, Geezers,, you’re clearly men of intent, and undoubtedly you start each new year with fresh resolve. So what are your goals for 2014,  my good fellows?”

Dr. Golf: "Let's see, let me think...."

Professor: “Well, just off the top of my head:

The Professor's version of a full-court press. 

“#10.  To play even less defense on the basketball court.  I love playing basketball, and I'm thankful I can still pull myself up and down the court.  And I know that the game is supposed to be both offense and defense but…enough with the expectation that I hustle on defense.  As a Geezer, I should have a full and unfettered right to save my energy to take foolish shots and talk trash.  Yes, by all means go through the motions on defense, but to really play it like you mean it—I’ll leave that to the kids in their forties.”

Mercurious: “Admirable that you can still get up and down the floor. As a variation of your #`10—mind you,  my knees can’t take basketball anymore—I’m going to resolve to do more walking in 2014. I slacked a bit in 2013, I’m afraid. Walking for me is just plain good for the soul, in a kind of Thoreau way. It puts me in real contact with the world, which simply isn’t possible when driving in a car.

Mathematician: “So first, I’m not sure I can do 10 resolutions.  I can barely remember to take the car keys and my coffee in the morning.  10 is just a lot more resolute than I care to be.  But here goes.  My #10 is weirdly parallel to the Professor’s.  After a 1 year layoff I plan to play basketball every Sunday in 2014 that I’m in town.  I do not plan to hustle – ever.  Nor will I take foolish shots.  Indeed on any given Sunday I may not shoot at all.  But I will sweat, rebound and set devastating picks.  And I can only hope that next time the Professor wanders through town he makes a guest appearance on my home court.  I’d love to stuff his jump shot just once.”

Mercurious: “Courageous, M.  And don’t worry. I have it on good authority that the Professor’s "jump shot" more closely resembles a really bad Cousy set-shot during Bob’s final days.”

Dr. Golf:  "If you ask me....."

Professor: “#9.  To continue to work hard at sleeping in.  Research show us that many people—as

The Professor resolutely practicing resolution #9

they age—tend to have difficulty sleeping as late into the morning as they used to.  A dilemma indeed.  It's akin to loosing your ability to gorge yourself quite as much on a fine meal with multiple beverages, or losing your ability to…well, let's just say losing other important abilities.  The solution (as always):  PRACTICE, PRACTICE, PRACTICE.  I have made good progress on such practice over the holiday and I intend to keep up the diligent work in 2014”

Mercurious:  “Well, I’m one of those early risers you talk about, and my resolution will be quite the opposite: I’m going to stop fretting about the fact that I don’t sleep all that much. I’m simply resolving to go with the flow on that matter and stop worrying that I don’t sleep a lot. And after all, early morning sex fantasies are among the very best. “

Mathematician: “I must never give in to the urge to sleep in.  Having joined the ranks of the unemployed, sleeping late is the first step on a slippery slope that ends with me living under a bridge in a box wondering if Soft Scrub is a good toothpaste.  So I resolve to be up by 6:30 each day.  And make the bed by 7, to make my dead Grandmother proud and to prevent the dreaded ‘morning nap’”.

Dr.Golf: "Well, yeah......"

Professor: “#8.  To keep my powers of judgmentality.  So when did exercising judgment get to be such a bad thing.  To be called judgmental is comparable to be called a bigot—or worse—an old geezer.  Let us all continue to work on developing our (best, most reasoned and most legitimately supported) judgments through 2014.”

Mercurious: “I’m quite sure that will be a very easy one for you to keep, Professor. An editorial note, by the way: judgmentality is a not a word. Weighing in at #8 for me:  ‘To continue simplifying my life.' I’m at that stage where I have enough physical stuff, and my head is plenty full of information already.”

Mathematician: “Mercurious, we find you to be a plenty simple fellow already…..The problem with being judgmental is not our inability to reason.  It is our inability to gather evidence. I may judge the poor soul asking for bus fair to be a worthy recipient of my donation, until I later see him enter a seedy bar.  So I will resolve to reserve judgment as long as necessary, which is to say unless and until it is demanded of me.  Offering judgments just to show that I can seems like a bad idea. Or so I judge.

Mercurious: “If the alternative to simplicity is that kind of cryptic gibberish, Math, I’ll double down on the simplicity resolution, thank you very much.

Dr. Golf: "(Clears his throat)"

No words necessary,
you fool.

Professor:  “All right then, #7—To consume quality food and drink whenever possible (and hopefully in excessive quantities on occasion)  As geezerhood overtakes some of us, we cannot drink or eat like we used to without it going straight to our waistline (although sometimes I wonder if my wife's exhortation not to be such a fathead might not be anatomically  precise.)  If we can't do the quantity like we used to, perhaps we should double-down on the quality.  (16 year old Lagavulin here we come…and don't forget the Cuban cigars!)

Mercurious:   “No criticism there, Professor, and since we’re on a wining/dining theme, my #8 resolution is two-part: first, to drop my snobbery in rejecting bourbon and rye whiskey and insisting only upon Scotch. I resolve to more often take the Mathematician up on his offers of alternative whiskeys. Secondly, I resolve to eat when hungry, and to fast when I’m not. I’m well aware that all too often I eat from habit.  I will, however, continue to define thirst very broadly.”

Mathematician: “At last.  A resolution I can sink my teeth into.  I resolve to enjoy more what I eat and drink. Since we are given a limited budget of calories and sobriety each day, why not spend them in the best way we can.  I resolve to be willing to take more time and care to craft truly memorable meals.  And yes, I will serve the good Bourbon to friends and enjoy it as much as my solitary glass at the end of the day.  No Lagavulin in my bar, but Stagg and Old Weller, most definitely.”

Mercurious: “Pretty much every meal I’ve ever had at your house, Math, is a gourmet treat, so I guess I’ll just need to eat there all the time…what time is dinner?”

Dr. Golf:  "As I was saying—"

Professor: “To continue: #6.  To care more about unimportant things.  Treating unimportant things as if they were important is the key to so much in life that it's almost impossible to go into here.  Suffice it to say that—ultimately —controlling the Orange monopoly (St. James, Tennessee, and New York Avenues) is not an important thing.  But without the ability to care about getting such properties, the game doesn't have much appeal.  The same goes for life, as I as I was reminded last Sunday when my oldest son (a Jets fan) invited me over to his new "man cave" to watch the Eagles kick the Cowboys in just the right spot.  His observation: "It's more fun to watch the game with someone who really cares."  Fun indeed.”

Mercurious:  “interesting. I’ll spin a similar subject at #6: ‘To do only what is necessary, and not waste time on the unnecessary.’  By this, I don’t mean to cavalierly slouch through life, but rather to choose to act on things that are truly relevant, and engage them wholeheartedly. Life would be far more interesting, I think, if people believed that every action was meaningful and important.”

 Mathematician: “Caring enough to live life with some passion seems a good resolution in this vein. As Roald Dahl puts it in Uncle Oswald, … ‘if you are interested in something, no matter what it is, go at it at full speed ahead. Embrace it with both arms, hug it, love it and above all become passionate about it’.  I think I have earned my stripes in Football, Monopoly, Risk, Wine and Bourbon.  Drawing upon observation of my implacable demeanor, few acquaintances would call me passionate. But many of my close friends would.

Mercurious: “Passionate?  I guess that’s accurate, although ‘compulsive/obsessive’ was the term that first came to mind, Math. And frankly, when it comes to Monopoly, you're not all that impressive.”

Dr. Golf: "If you ask me...."

Professor: “All right then. At #5.  To be a role model in "wasting" time.  Yes, we all have to work

Geezers are highly skilled at wasting time, as evidenced here. 

hard, and yes, there are times in life when you just have to keep the pedal to the metal and keep going no matter what.  But what fun is geezerhood if we can't share the fundamental wisdom that many of the novel, distinctive and/or creative ideas we get about our lives occur in time that would be described by an outside observer as "wasted."  I waste time sipping on a cool one walking around my pastures "checking the fences."  Others stare at the moon as it rises fat on the horizon.  Here's to a year in which we all find gaps that we don't fill with activity…without activity, perhaps ideas or insight might fill these gaps instead.”

Mercurious: “No argument from me here. Well stated.”

Mathematician: “The kind of thoughtful leisure that you both describe is part of the spirituality that make us men.  You both know I’m opposed to ‘organized religion’.  And that I cherish Greek philosophy.  So an easy #5 for me is to live the examined life, as Socrates exhorts.  Not to get lost in my own world of questions and self doubt.  But to take time each day to walk the dog, which is really just an excuse to reflect on the day.  I probably don’t really need a resolution for this. It’s ingrained in my nature. But what the hell, at least this is one resolution I will keep even if I can’t remember it.

Mercurious: “That’s fine. Just as long as you pick up the dog shit when you walk the beast.”

Dr. Golf:  "Say what?"

Professor: “#4.  To find joy in the problems of humanity.  We know that people's imperfections are often the things that make them most lovable.  My mom has always had a special bond with my diabetic brother; the kid who has to work hardest on an exam elicits our sympathy and good feelings intuitively.  Could we take this idea and apply it to humanity? Lord knows that Syria, the Duck Dynasty and Congress have all exposed the weaknesses of humanity to us, as one silliness leads to another and one conflict breeds two more.  I want to find a way that the imperfections of what we collectively refer to as "humanity" can become as lovable as the imperfections of those individuals closest to us (as I mentioned above, my son is a Jets fan, Lord love him!)”

Mercurious: “Most excellently stated, Professor. I’m jealous that you phrased this so romantically, as I don’t think of you as a touchy-feely fellow, generally. Extending this a little bit in my own direction, at #4  I’ll resolve to make my favorite Joseph Campbell principle a little more central in my life:  “Cheerfully embrace all the joys and sorrows that life has to offer.”

Mathematician: “I don’t want to spoil this love fest, so I will grudgingly agree to embrace both life’s joy and sorrow.  But I am suspicious of this one.  Some imperfections are downright unlovable.  I will not snoodle Hannibal Lecter .”

Mercurious: “Nien, my good Mathematician. We’re not talking evil here, just normal human failings. Recognizing those failings is the source of all human compassion, and sure you and Socrates wouldn’t piss on that virtue. The Professor had it exactly right here.”

Professor:  “I get all tingly when you approve of me, Mercurious.  So let’s stay on the roll.  At #3:  To keep score.  Many people refer to "keeping score" in a negative way, and it can be, if it prevents you from enjoying the "game."  But on the other hand (as I learned while coaching grade school basketball years ago when one well-meaning coach successfully proposed eliminating the scoreboard) the game tends to be less fun if no one is keeping score.  And besides, even when one claims they're not keeping score, they really are.

The Professor, seeking to accumulate
even more merit points. 

“Same goes for personal relationships.  The "score" doesn't have to even out at the end of the day (or even at the end of the year.)  But a general sense of where you stand in a relationship (whether you are in "debit" or "credit") is a useful tool as you continue forward into a new year.  If you are in debit, it helps you generate the appropriate gratitude for the special relationship, and the energy to give as much as you can to the relationship in the future; if you are in "credit" it just plain makes you feel good, which leads to more generosity.  Keep score, by all means (but keep score carefully—and keep it to yourself.)”

Mercurious:  “Well there’s a uniquely Professorial resolution, if I ever heard one. At #3 for me:  I resolve to live with more softness and vulnerability. There was a time that I tended to live very defensively, a little angrily, even, and I occasionally lapse back into that, unfortunately. But each time I wake up again, I’ve always found that there’s really great merit to staying in touch with one’s basic pain of living, and not trying to defend against it.”

Mathematician: “Since I love statistics, I definitely defend keeping score.  Without ‘knowing the score’, it becomes really hard to adapt.  And since living is changing, I’d rather be measured in my reactions and use the score to guide my choices.  The problem, of course, is that statistics can lie.  Losers often think they are winning.  And the tallies I keep to myself don’t gain me any points with my spouse.  So I guess I’ll go with softness and vulnerability.  The vulnerable Mathematician shall I be.

Dr. Golf:  "What were we talking about?"

Professor; “2.  To stay out of touch.  With Skype, e-mail and cell phones at our disposal, the old cliché request to "keep in touch" has taken on new meaning.  While I find emerging communications technology to be astounding, I do wonder sometimes if I really want to be as "in touch" as technology allows me to be.  Many of my College students are "in touch" with their parents on a daily basis.  My New Year’s wish for many with whom I am in touch: live life fully, and when next we meet (and I mean "meet" as in being in the same room together) we can share some great stories accompanied by some high quality beverages (see 7 above.)  Being constantly in touch can steal the thunder of experiences that—much like fine wines—improve with a bit of time and yeasty "fermentation" that turns experience into stories of distinct color and insight.”

Mercurious:  “I’ll just join you wholeheartedly on this one, Professor, if you don’t mind. It’s a great irony to me that people who are constantly in electronic contact seem to have far less intimacy than the people who take your great good advice to stay unconnected at the right times.”

Mathematician: “Uh…ditto.  And may twitter find a well deserved early grave.”

Dr. Golf: "I guess if I were going to weigh in...."

Professor: “1.  To be old at heart.  The headline in the local paper will read: "85 Years Young!!"  As the famous 70's philosopher Mr. T might say: "I pity the fool."  Just as kids should be allowed to be kids, there is absolutely nothing wrong with acknowledging your age—even if (especially if) it is somewhat advanced.  Let's face it: we know more than we used to, we have (hopefully) learned some things the hard way.  We've got our BA from the University of Hard Knocks (some stayed for graduate school.)  I'll try not to be a windbag (as my fellow geezers know, there is small chance of that happening!) but I will look for opportunities to share my hard-earned geezer perspective.  (Examples: "That's better than a sharp stick in the eye",   "if you get into a contest of strength with a horse, the horse will win every time"…things like that….)

Mercurious:  “Interesting perspective, Professor. I take your point; I find nothing sadder than the

The Geezers, embracing their well-earned decrepitude.

folks who seem terrified by growing older, who take every measure to hide the fact, acting like teenagers when they’re 70 years old. A tangential geezer we both know professes to long for the day when humans will live youthfully for 200 years.  Not me, I have to tell you. Can you imagine anything more unpleasant than a society that had no need for the fresh renewal offered by new generations?  So at #1 for me: I resolve to remember, as Wordsworth said, that “the child is the father to the man,” and not take my geezerhood too seriously, even while I embrace it.”

Mathematician: “ Hmm.  If this is my number one resolution for 2014, embracing my Geezerhood doesn’t feel like the right thing.  Not that I fear death.  And I certainly don’t deny my advancing age by acting like a teenager.  But since my Atheist self doesn’t look for my reward in the hereafter, I must instead come to grips with my mortality in a different way.  I don’t expect to become famous, so I can’t expect to be immortalized like Shakespeare or Kardashian.  I guess I will resolve to find peace in the arms of my children and my father. I will write more about him, and me and them without the self-consciousness that can so easily block expression.  I will remember him to them and in that way bring him (and me) at least some measure of immortality.  Our family name may not live as long as some others, but it will find life for a few more generations.  That should be good enough.  And maybe I won’t notice the awful smell at the nursing home so much if I’m distracted by such noble thoughts.

Mercurious: A very fine way to end things, I think. Thank you Geezers, one and all.

Dr. Golf:  "What?"

Spring is Coming. Really.

As has been true for the last week, it was pretty cold this morning in Minneapolis. My car started, but reluctantly. But by late morning when I had to head to an off-site meeting from the office, I noticed that it had warmed up noticeably.

Here's what the dashboard thermometer looked like at 11:00 am in Parking Ramp C, after the cold of early morning eased:

WTF!!

Where the hell is that global warming I've been promised?

This is what fighting an apartment fire at -13 temps looks like
(two nightsago on the U of M campus near where I once lived).

Since we had just a taste of unseasonable winter warmth when the mercury reached 46 degrees last Saturday, the most recent five days have looked like this: morning low -13 to an afternoon high  of 1; low of -13 to a high of 2; low of -8 to a high of 1; low of -12 to a high of  1.

If you average the hourly figures, the average temperature during this stretch has been -7. And that's been in the balmy urban island of Minneapolis. A couple hundred miles to the north, the lows have been -27, -33, etc.

Back in high school physics class, we were taught that cold is really nothing more than the absence of heat energy. That is utter horse shit, because anybody who lives in a northern climate can tell you that cold is an aggressive,  active force that is much more than the mere absence of some other principle. Cold hunts you in the winter here, aggressively and slyly. To say that cold is the absence of heat is like saying Mike Tyson is the absence of Scarlett Johanson.

Another falsehood is the claim that once you get below zero, all cold feels pretty much the same. That's also horse shit, because cold takes on a different feel when you get down to about -15. This is the point where a car when started in the morning will have squared off tires for a few minutes until they roll themselves out to roundness again; where the foam seat cushions in a car are stiff as hardened sand; where the power steering system shrieks at you before the system warms up enough for fluids to flow liquidly. This is also a temperature where the snow will squeal in pain when you walk on it, and where the inside of your nose will crust with ice after moments of breathing through your nostrils.

And it doesn't end there. The coldest air temps I've personally experienced are  in the -35 to -40 range, and at this temperature, actual clothing begins to stiffen, and ice will form on the liquid lubricating your eyeballs. If you spit into the air at this temp, the spittle with freeze with an audible snap and drop to the ground like a hail stone.

And it doesn't end here, either, though I'm fortunate not to have experienced the -55 to -60 below

Not a terrorist. Just a typical business executive commuting
by bus in a Minneapolis winter. 

temps known in parts of northern Minnesota. That's a zone where home furnaces can really never keep up with the attack of the cold on a dark winter night, and where you'd damned well better have a wood-burning heat source to back you up in case the furnace breaks down altogether, which does happen when a furnace is forced to roar constantly for six or seven days at a time without a break. People up there sometimes sleep in fully insulated snow-mobile suits, because furnaces may be able to keep indoor temps only slightly above freezing, and if they break down may cause death to sleepers. I've known cabin owners in the north who literally burned all their furniture in the wood stove in the dead of winter when a propane furnace went bad during weather that left roads impassable.

This morning, before walking to the bus, I donned:

Two pairs of socks, including a thick woolen pair
Long underwear bottoms
Sturdy pair of gabardine business casual slacks
Long-sleeve undershirt
Long-sleeve dress shirt
Long-sleeve v-neck sweater
Thin fleece North Face jacket
Insulated boots
Thick full-length woolen overcoat, reaching to mid calf
8-foot long woolen scarf, wrapped several times around my neck
Woolen driving cap
Woolen earmuffs.

At the bus stop corner, I first bought a cup of steaming coffee from Starbucks, but could not drink it fast enough, because ice began to form on the surface within five minutes of standing outside. And despite the sartorial statement my clothing made, I was experiencing numbness in my toes, hands, and face within 20 minutes of waiting for a bus that was running late.

At the shop downtown where I bought a breakfast sandwich, the clerk mentioned that he had found a great spot to ice-fish for crappies (a pan fish similar to a sun-fish) on one of the city lakes over the weekend. "How's the ice?" I asked. "Okay so far," he said. "Two feet thick right now, but I'm afraid it won't be by end of January. Could be three feet thick by then. My auger may not reach far enough."

This is a climate where a common winter complaint is that the lake ice is too thick to allow for ice fishing.

* this grumpy essay is spoken entirely tongue-in-cheek. I'm well aware that man-made climate change is real, and that the overall temperature of the planet has increased dangerously  in recent years. I just wish a little of that heat would visit us in Minnesota in December and January.

Citizens of 4F, December 30, 2013

This was an unusual day for 3-year-old Frankie, a regular passenger on the morning north-bound 4F bus into downtown Minneapolis.

Frankie and his mother board the bus near the start of its run, in the inner ring suburb of Richfield, and so they are already seated when the bus reaches my stop, which is at the point where the bus just enters crosses the city boundary into  Minneapolis proper on its morning run into downtown. 

Today was different because Frankie was a happy child,  an unusual state of affairs for him. After many dozens of mornings watching him and his young mother, I've concluded that Frankie probably lives with one of the conditions commonly identified as being on the austism/asberger's spectrum. My wife, who worked in the public school system, tells me that it's now the standard theory that attention-deficit disorders also are related to this spectrum, so I'm assuming at the very least, Frankie suffers from a very severe case of attention deficit. 

On most days, his face wears a constant expression of troubled consternation, as though he lives in perpetual conflict with his own nature. Looking out the window of the bus offers him no more than a few seconds of focus, and neither can he be occupied with any of the books or games that his mother provides him on the bus ride. His squirming is constant, and it is rare that he is at peace for more than a few seconds at a time. He is really not disruptive to other passengers, but neither is his mother ever able to do anything but tend his constant needs. His little forehead is almost always furrowed in emotional discomfort.

His mother is very young—certainly no more than 20 or 21, and perhaps even younger, and it's to her credit that I've never seen her lose her temper with Frankie. She is so young that it's possible the Aladdin backpack she carries with Frankie is not her son's at all, but is an artifact of her own recent childhood. 

Today, though, Frankie is for the first time a bit more like other little boys. This morning is the exception that proves the rule.  Beneath his parka, he wears a tee-shirt that says "Hey Dude, Your Girlfriend Keeps Checking Me Out," Frankie sits on his mother's lap facing backwards toward me; I'm two rows behind them.  When Frankie catches my eye, he begins to play the familiar hide-and-seek game that's common to most kids.  He moves his head behind his mother, blocking his view of me, then pops his head back to see me once again.  As soon as my eyes shift back to meet his again, he breaks into a quietly delighted smile.  It pleases him enormously to see our shared recognition of one another. 

The game goes on for nearly 15 minutes—a period of focus virtually unheard of for Frankie. When Frankie and his mother get up to leave the bus at the Lake St. connection, she glances back and smiles at me.  It pleases her to see Frankie occasionally behave like a typical child; it may give her hope for his future. Frankie, too, smiles at me over his Mom's shoulder as they leave the bus, and I wonder if he will develop the skill to remember these occasional calm moments at those frequent times when his awareness again begins to vibrate out of control.