Thursday, January 2, 2014
I grew up in big old, cold houses decorated throughout with large cast iron radiators. At 820 Stevens Avenue the banging, when the heat came on, kept me company all night long. Early, winter mornings always seemed to pack a punch. My room was frigid! Some days my breath could be clearly seen. Cripes! The night before, I'd even stack my school clothes on the chair next to the bed and actually got dressed in bed. Crazy! Wrinkled-free clothes had not made the scene yet, and we had no clothes dryer, other than the sun, to help eliminate the creases. But I was a guy, and it was junior high so what I looked like was no big deal. Wrinkled clothes or not, when I hit the toasty-warm kitchen all shivering was forgotten for the day. Dad lit the wood stove at 5 AM and by 7 it was nirvana in there with the hallway doors closed. Eating my steaming bowl of oatmeal, with loads of sugar, and talking foolish to anyone who would listen was my fuel for the morning. One snow day, it was so freezing in my bedroom that, I etched a curse to the sky and myself, with the fingernail of my index finger.
"It's way too COLD!"
With that off my conscience, I jumped back, under the heavy quilt, and headed back to dreamland.