Back in Time: 1999

 

In 1999, I was a senior in college, and I was writing a humor column for my school newspaper. Most were about school-specific things, but one was about the weather. ...It's funnier than it sounds, in my opinion, so I'm posting it here. You can find the rest on my old Angelfire site, but I don't recommend it, as it seems to be under Russian control now.

Ice, Ice Baby (yes, that was the title)

Let me tell you a little bit about myself. I was born and raised in Connecticut. I also spent a few years in Rhode Island, but that isn't important right now. Actually, it wasn't important then, either. The whole state hasn't really done much since the war. (The Revolutionary War. They landed a massive force on Nantucket, I think.) The point is that Connecticut weather is nothing new to me. A period of snow followed by a period of hail followed by a period of rain followed by a high in the sixties has been going on since I was a kid. Probably even earlier than that, unless my birth coincided with a massive ecological disaster.

(May 16, 1977, 2:22 pm: A croquet court in Danbury.

"Excellent shot, old bean!"

"Thank you, old chap."

"I say - it's rather hot out again today! Would you like a lemonade?"

"Yes, thank you, I'd OH MY GOD! RUN! RUUUUNNNNN!"

At this point a hurricane materializes above them, sweeps them up, and deposits them in the air over a soft, fetid marsh. On their way down, however, the marsh becomes firm, arable farmland and they are killed on impact.)

Connecticut winters can be mellow some years, but for the most part they are cruel, unforgiving masters. My childhood memories are full of stories of terrible snowstorms. Unfortunately, my adult memories are full of more adult things, like credit card debts and what happened in the last issue of Captain America, so these childhood memories are either lost or have been removed by shadowy government agencies.

I do know that during the blizzard of 1977 my mom had to actually park on another street and walk to my house, primarily because no one has dared to plow my street since those two climbers were killed on its south face. ("It's not a driveway, it's a scream of stone," said my uncle, who lost both thumbs to "Ol' Fingersnatcher.") My mother had to trudge through a foot of snow carrying me in one arm, a bag of groceries in another arm, and my two-year old sister in the third arm, which she had grafted on after I was born for just such an occasion.

As much fun as the winters are in Connecticut, my family reluctantly bid a fond adieu in the summer of 1993 and moved to the Caribbean, where the beginning of winter is marked by an intense heat wave that generally leaves 15% of the population dead or extremely uncomfortable. We spent that Christmas on St. John, watching the egg nog evaporate, but the next year we did exactly what everyone else didn't and flew to Connecticut for the holidays. The minute I stepped off the plane, I felt the bone-chilling embrace of the land that I loved, and I knew then that I wouldn't be happy unless I spent the next four years in constant fear of losing a toe to frostbite.

Why Wesleyan, you might ask? Why not Brown, or Harvard, or another one of those big, interdependent ivy league schools? To tell you the truth, I wanted a bitter, frigid winter that only an urban environment like Middletown could offer me. Small towns like Boston and Providence - sure, they may have more TV shows filmed there, but they certainly don't offer the dangerous driving conditions that a city like Middletown can provide. The state of Alaska (State slogan: "Help us... please!") used to offer both dangerous driving conditions and the filming of TV shows, but "Northern Exposure" was canceled a few years ago and the use of sled dogs in the place of cars has led to fewer traffic accidents, if more maulings.

Earlier this winter, a friend of mine from Alaska restated his annual claim that winters in Connecticut were "wimpy" or "gutless" or something equally negative. He felt that Alaskan winters were superior in length, intensity and overall toll on human life. This morning he was found frozen in his bed, curled in the fetal position with his stiff sheets stuck to his skin, which was a bright shade of cerulean blue. (His death is attributed to the fact that heat rises, and that his window was missing.) His pre-mortem opinions were not unshared; in fact, one out of every two Alaskans harbors a deep resentment towards Connecticut, primarily because Connecticut beats Alaska at everything except killing Alaskans. (Recent Alaskan deaths may affect these figures.)

Basically, Connecticut is incredible. I can't remember what state has the saying "If you don't like the weather ... wait five minutes," but it should be Connecticut. Connecticut needs more sayings. Like:

"If you don't like the weather ... go to Alaska."

Or: "If you don't like the weather ... wait until winter gets here, then you'll be sorry, fool!"

Alaska has some good sayings, too. Their big one is:

"If you don't like getting mauled by a sled dog, well, that's just too bad, isn't it? You shouldn't have moved to Alaska."