Our forecasters, the predictors of our weather, said it was coming. It’s going to get cold and we will have some snow and ice. Fine. I planned ahead and ordered a delivery to stock up on consumables and readied for winter. A few extra sweatshirts and sweaters, knitted gloves and hat and another cover for the bed. The only things outside my control were electricity, furnace, water and the Internet.
Sure, enough the weather changes. The coldzilla brings the white stuff and everyone hunkers down. The temperatures drop below freezing and stay there…for weeks. The realization I’m imprisoned by ice.
Normally a snow day or days or daze gives one time to do things around the house. Relax on the couch under a cover, binge videos, eat snacks, take naps and reveal in the white wonder outside.
On the second or third day (I forget for everyday is the same) I try to take out some trash and immediately slip on the ice. After some innovative maneuvering, I slide back into the house realizing my folly and vowing not to do that again until all this mess melts. My mind wonders if I’d hit my head harder or broken a bone, I’d frozen to death in 14° weather without a coat, gloves, hat. Being in a spot where no one could see my body, I’d just rotted until spring. Lessons learned.
The problem with this spell of frozen incarceration by
Mother Nature is I don’t feel well. My stomach is still bothering me and not
being one who is popular of partaking of pharmaceutical concoctions and
potions, I take everything I have in the medicine cabinet to lessen my
uncomfortably. I pace back and forth like a caged tiger and go from chair to
bed to chair with no relief.
Rationally knowing I must eat to maintain my lack of energy;
I ration my stocks to stretch them out for I’ll not be going out and a delivery
would be risky. One would think that during a home-alone time, could endow in treats
and meals of desire, but when your stomach is bloated, nothing seems appealing.
Lots of coffee, water, soups and stuffies are poured down the gullet but only
fills my gut increasing my discomfort. Where does it all go?
Rodney? you ask. He is my little rodent roommate. How
he got in, I have no idea. This ole house has plenty of nooks and crannies for
the outside to enter. I hear him rattling around the stove. I’m sure this is a
warmer place than the outside below zero atmosphere. He’d steal my sponges at
night and drag it out behind the microwave. He’d take a few bites but not sure
it was nourishment. There is nothing else to munch on because everything is in
a jar, but he just hangs around. Now and then, out of the corner of my eye, I
see a grey blur. A rattle sound will let me know he is still around.
The other night, I got up at 3AM from my series of one-hour naps and put on my slippers before going down the hall for relief. The right slipper went on and the left slipper…? I scrapped the slipper into the next room to sit in a chair and reach in to find the mysterious blockage. There was Rodney taking a nap. Can’t blame him. It was probably a cozy warm but perhaps smelly spot. We scatter in different directions and got back to our nightly patterns.
Since my medicine cabinet choices have not solved my continuous discomfort and the temperature has at least cleared the streets, I make an online delivery request for off-the-shelf pharmacy recommendations.
One day follows the next and the fluids flow but the chocolate choo-choo is still stuck in the station.
Then, one evening, the body indicates a blow-out is
coming. Better hurry down to the porcelain throne for this relief. My bare foot
hits the tile floor and…Wham! Bam! Thank you, ma’am! I’m flat on the floor.
“I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” used to be funny…until you get my age. I try
and right myself but the floor is as slick as the ice outside and there was no
traction. Think. Even if I could reach the phone, there is no one to call and
lift me up. Think. What can I find to brace myself to pull myself up? I scoot
myself across the floor in my dirty diaper and grab a coffee table that is low
enough to get on my knees and then push up to my feet. What used to be a normal
exercise is now a chore.
One day follows the next day. Listen to NPR, watch a
speech on YouTube, review documentaries on the end of the Confederacy and the
WWII with amazement of why white men would walk for miles to shoot and get shot
at. Without interest in sports, the Winter Olympics holds no interest. The
political talking heads having nothing new to offer. Nothing holds my interest.
I have lots of toys to play with but none get my attention or desire.
One surprise is the ‘shorts’ or ‘reels’ of old 50s television shows. “Leave It to Beaver’ caught my attention. I remembered the conversations, clothing, cars, neighborhood because I lived it. Between “Leave It to Beaver” and Ozzie and Harriett” they were my family. Westerns also drew my attention. I watched them all on my little B&W TV. “Gunsmoke” with the dependable Marsal Dillion, Kitty, Doc and Chester maintained good vs. evil in a clean western town of Dodge City. Even met James Arness at lunch at the club one Sunday. Big, quiet guy who personified his character. My dad was a mix of Matt Dillion and John Wayne.
Though there is no moment in the neighborhood, now and then a neighbor will venture out trying to clear their walkway with a hammer. My house faces south, so when the sun comes out and the temps get above freezing, this mess will go away by itself.
I’m from Virginia. My town is on the plateau between
the mountains and the seashore, so the snow is usually light and gone soon.
Waiting by the radio to hear the schools are closed was rare. Not to say there
have been some memorable snows. In the mid-60’s our tribe gathered at the
Dexter’s house for a snow party. The snow kept coming. After a foot or two or
three, Mister and Mrs. D. decided to put us up for the night. Only two, my date
and the youngest, required us to strap on our boots and venture out into the
cold to deliver them to their doorstep. The evening was spent listening to ole
WWII stories from Mr. D and drinking pop until we found enough blankets and
sleeping bags to rest for the evening. The girls, who were quarantined upstairs
almost came down and joined us but the elderly prevailing efforts forted our
testosterone desires. The winter after my wife’s death, there was a big snow
fall. I was younger then and wandered out to take some photos but didn’t have
to venture further.
Lucky enough to be close to a bus line, on most snow days I was able to ride these standing room only tanks that powered through the drifts. On one occasion, the bus never arrived so I trudged my way down a very quiet Monument Ave. listening to conversations on the telephone lines. I think I was the only one who made it in and there was nothing to do. Was appreciated that the publisher came through every department to thank for the effort.
One day, hoping to get some air and having a clear walkway, I ventured outside to turn on my little heater and shiver in a different location. There is plenty of liquid for delivery will bring alcohol to your doorstep Still discomfortable, but in different ways with no appetite or energy, I scroll the Internet hoping to see something exciting or someone to contact for there have been no conversations in days. Is anybody out there?
Being isolated, the news of a missing person ponders me. Would the FBI come searching for me? Who would say I am missing. Missing what? Then I get a letter from the Department of the Navy. It is a request for a DNA sample to database against ESN Clifford McIver who went MIA March 18, 1945. Good luck spending out tax money. The Pacific Ocean is full of planes and pilots from WWII.
Just as the little violet crocus start to tease spring
is on the way, the prediction is old Ma Nature is bringing another round of
cold and snow. Back inside and under the covers, I ready for another engagement
session, but now something new.
I decide to take out the trash. Easy pezy right? Wrong! For weeks there has been so little activity, the simplest task become a overwhelming exercise in breathing. Plus, a cough has popped up. Putting on my pants or walking across the yard requires a stop to catch my breath. Chores are broken down into segments to stop and sit down to stop the huffing and puffing. My next order for delivery will probably include an inhaler, gas medicine and cough drops.
Those who flip a coin on the H’s and L’s tell us by the end of the week the temperature will rise 40°. Warmth. 80’s. Good enough for a rocking nap on the porch? Perhaps it will bake out my boogie boos or maybe ole age has caught up to me?
Time will tell…
