January, First Among Months

Grab a Swiss Miss and hear me out.

Photo by Lucas Marcomini on Unsplash

As a cold front approaches New York, my thoughts turn to other cold places I’ve called home. January had its charms in all of them, if you looked for them. Let’s turn on the space heater and go back in time.

Buffalo. In 1977, my home town experienced a blizzard of historic proportions. It was the first snowstorm that led to a region being declared a federal disaster area. School was cancelled for two glorious weeks. Imagine having a test you hadn’t studied for, and then waking up to 14 straight snow days. There could be no greater happiness, I think.

In the olden days, you had to listen to the radio to learn if your school was closed. There was no other way to know. Typically school names were read in alphabetical order, so you had an agonizing wait to find out if you were free, depending on where it fell on the list. Torture!

My understanding is that kids don’t get snow days anymore. They have “remote learning” instead. I hope it’s just a snow day in disguise.

Alaska. I lived in Anchorage for two-and-a-half years, which makes me a sourdough, not a cheechako. Alaska is cold and dark for a long time. You would drive into work in the dark and drive home in the dark for too many months. The first day to drive both ways without headlights was something to celebrate.

The roads weren’t salted, but sanded. So the approach to a stop sign would be a slick runway of ice. The bald tires on my Scout probably didn’t help. Smarter people than me had studded snow tires. And cars that were able to heat the interior. Now I have an old VW Golf with heated seats. I’ve traveled a long way, friends.

Once I went ice fishing with my friends Marc and Brian. We drove a few hours north of Wasilla to a big lake called Big Lake. Marc augured the hole—it was at least eight inches thick—the opening of which we often had to clear as the top quickly refroze, as it was -20°F (-29°C). We stayed in the Ford pickup truck cab with the heat on and stuck the rod out the window, the line descending into the hole. We didn’t catch any fish but maybe that wasn’t the point, the fun of being there together was. The Northern Lights were doing its crazy magical thing above us and Casey Kasem was counting down America’s Top 40.

That night we tried to sleep in sleeping bags on the truck bed. We may have lasted an hour or two before wisely deciding to drive back to Wasilla and Mark’s heated house. I’ve always been grateful that the pickup truck started up again. We were in the middle of nowhere. No cellphones in those days (there’s probably no service there even now). And did I mention the temperature? Thank you, Ford Motor Company.

Sweden. I lived in Stockholm for three-and-a-half years. Swedes have winter down. It’s lit by candles and lights and much of Stockholm looks like it did hundreds of years ago, although the country is more modern and technologically advanced than the U.S. In the winter I’d walk with my friends Martin and Kenneth and Uffe and Jorma to a cozy bar on Djurgårdan that had a fire, sawdust on the floor and waiters who’d spot us free beers because we tipped well. On the way home we’d stop at a street cart that sold “tunnbrödsrulle,” which is a heated, buttered flatbread wrapped around two Swedish hotdogs, mashed potatoes and shrimp salad. It fortified you against the cold, and you wouldn’t have to eat again for days.

So let the cold come. I can deal with it, as can all New Yorkers. I’ll put on a base layer, the fancy new name for long underwear, pull a balaclava over my head, stick a couple hand warmers in my gloves, and march down to the Metro North station.

Better yet, I’ll drive. It’d be a shame not to use the heated seats.