To Soothe

Dialing "on" the warmth of my electric baseboard heater quickly gives relief, pure physical, "ah" producing relief, much like the gulping of a chilled, sweetened drink on a summer's day pushes aside, together with the happy sound of clinking cubes of ice against my tumbler, and at least for several unadulterated seconds, any discomfort, physical, psychic or even existential. To freeze reality, and nearly so, in the case of one's hot, parched gullet, is the imagined ideal. Similarly, a sustained, toasty balm in the form of a heating element enabled by the magic of electricity, and as serviceable as the ancient hearth, is embraced and hoped for as the agent of a bliss unending  A long winter is wished away along with its incessantly delivered, below freezing temperatures together with my habituation, through idleness teamed with weariness, of wearing indoors, cheap, damp Red Chinese- made footwear, long after their use during the shoveling of snow, ice and slush. Quiet cursing gives way to determined action as I slip out of these boots, their cracked, highly permeable and deteriorating soles having allowed the wrinkling of my toes to a repulsive degree only barely tolerable because of the season's temperatures' inhospitableness toward mold. Prayers follow curses (when I have donned an acceptable pair of old, DRY, U.S.A. made galoshes) and they're directed toward not only Old Man Winter's speedy demise but also his misery spreading tools of destruction: the tons of the gray, granular melange of urban snow/gunk that my ally, Old Sol helps me to send again, on its way to oblivion with halite, a big, strong push broom, sturdy snow shovel and a gravitationally well positioned sewer drain.

But what's the big deal? Am I a Finnish trooper in the winter of 1939-40? Must I keep moving, ever moving, mindful of the deadly cold and Soviet marauders? Am I a member of the Donner party, trudging and eventually staggering as hideously as if I were on Mars with my oxygen tank nearly exhausted and with unspeakable horror casting its shadow? Am I a homeless urchin seeking an even more vulnerable, missing sibling in the streets of New York during the White Hurricane of 1888? No, of course I am not. I am simply the extremely very late middle aged author of this blog entry and one who has permitted himself to be seduced by the powers that be that proclaim that every instance of inclement weather in North America is a calamity warranting one's undivided attention via their megaphones of uber urgency: televison, radio and the internet. Once upon a time, news and certainly weather were laconically communicated topics. This was when television was in its infancy, as was I, and technology and money were concentrated in our defense budget, the production of steel, oil,  agriculture, housing, rail, roads, automobiles and other essential industries and not on mass media and the marketing of fears and speculation: a kind of endless "Chicken Little, the sky is falling!" mantra of continuous melodrama and yes, hen clucking and hand wringing or a jazzed up yet Johnny-one-note narrative of only slightly sophisticated gossip, delight in phony drama and the creation of angst. Peace and quiet are the enemies of the gods of national, nay global communication. Dead air is abhorred and stories of problem solving Americans (our true national pastime) are always subordinated to those of mayhem or natural disasters or even, increasingly, natural phenomena like a snowier and colder than normal winter.

Well, yes...warm, dry feet and the wolf, meteorological or literal, that is persuaded or driven from my door is newsworthy to me. Yet, the soothing is best done by me and mine. Good friends and neighbors as well as family keep me most honestly and more lovingly informed about what is happening. That boob tube remains just that-- something that gives me more than a slight headache after repetitious broadcasts and predictable, unpleasant stories about stupid, criminally inclined and greedy people. The media folks' attempts in recent years to also exploit the weather for their interminable loop of tales designed to instill a kind of constant craving for their pronouncements, more than announcements, is having its effect. But like any addicting entity, the power of "no" is one we needn't be afraid to use. It's just snow. And when it's furiously falling, with news mongers galling, I'll keep patiently stalling 'til the sunshine is calling.