Regardless of temperature, the cold of a January morning should never be unexpected in New England. Letting the dog out in the morning I am greeted with a fresh blast of air that stings my cheeks and tingles my fingers. Slamming the door quickly on the elements and the dog, I bundle up to load the feeders and gather the newspapers no different than other years. This week is different, however, as we are coming off a record-breaking fall of warmth that has prevented us from putting on our winter layer of adaptation. Bicycling in shorts in most of December is something residents of Cocoa Beach not Connecticut should be able to claim.
So in the space of a few days, the temperature has dropped nearly 60 degrees bringing a quick freeze to everything and a quick change to outside wardrobe choices. Following the dog, I put on my heavy LL Bean green wool waistcoat, wool scarf, a fedora-like hat of wool and Thinsulate gloves. Even this covering doesn’t stop the five-degree wind from throwing little pins into my face, nature’s acupuncture. The first few inhalations tickle and freeze my nose hairs, stinging the intake. But the air is clear, fresh and unused. It’s being reheated as it passes through my lungs, chilling them ever so slightly creating a false sense of pressure. It is the uncovered and internal me that experiences the cold. As I exit the house, Daisy enters, her recently trimmed fur unready for the severity of the chill.
The rhododendrons are particularly sad as the cold has shriveled their broad, oval leaves, which hang low and lifeless and make crinkling noises in the breeze. The azaleas are similar though not the drama queens of their larger leafed brethren. The hydrangea try to show off their past with puff balls of dried florets but they are kidding no one. They too are chilled to the root and rustle in the wind. And the metal sparrow that hovers over the bird bath is peering at solid ice.
The real birds are squawking and chirping in nearby bushes and trees signaling the empty feeders I have yet to fill. They are puffed up with feathers and impatience fighting off the cold and looking for a refueling. The uninitiated ones dive to the feeder hoping for food not realizing they need replenishment. The seed rests on the first step leading down to the basement under the hurricane doors. Pulling them open, a thick crust of ice has formed from the warmer vapor in the basement.
Trying to untie the cord holding up the feeder proved fruitless with gloves so I needed to expose at least one hand. The initial shock was minor but as I touched the metal feeders, streaks of cold entered my fingers with tingles on the back of my hand. The quicker I attempt to fill the feeder, the more clumsy I become as the cold thwarts any possible dexterity. But once the feeders are filled, the birds quickly come to feast.
After the birds were taken care of, I went for the newspapers at the end of the driveway. While an anachronism in the minds of many, morning newspapers are one of my singular joys; even better in the winter near a filled and blazing wood stove with a cup of coffee in hand and classical music to the ear.
When I was in college, I would go swimming on Winter evenings with my friend Brian at the indoor University pool. It was our way to laugh at the condition of the moment and for a short while think about warmer days to come. Our criterion for cold was if our hair, facial or cranium, would freeze between the time we left the building and got back to one of our cars. As I entered my house I flexed my mustache toward my nose. Both were frozen.
