So, it's Wednesday. I'm off. I'd like to sleep in, but that simply doesn't happen here at the Chateau de Lieteau, so it was up and at 'em at 6 AM. One of the Wednesday chores is garbage, so I bundle up and drag the near unimaginable amount of trash to the street.
Now, its cold. Damn cold. I mean... damn cold. Snot-freezing cold (clue)... squeeky-snow-cold (clue)... and after about four minutes outside, eyelash-freezing-because-your-eyes-want-to-tear cold. As I walk in and take off my jacket, my son asks "How cold is it outside?"
"I'd guess about seven below." I answer confidently.
Jake, being Jake, runs to go check the digital thermometer to see if my "guess" was close. The result?
-6.7 degrees F
"How did you know how cold it was if you didn't go in the kitchen?" Jake asks.
I then tell him about what it was like waiting for the bus as a child and hearing the snow "squeek" beneath my boots. And about stepping onto the ice to check tip-ups and feeling your snot freeze solid with the first breath as opposed to the twentieth breath. Or about scraping the melt off a windshield and feeling your eyelashes sticking together due to my tears freezing them together. THAT is the almost inherent knowledge gained from an upbringing that included frigid winds of the lake, 40 inch snowfalls in a single night of snow, double-digit wind chill factors that could turn "uncomfortable" into "dangerous" in minutes.
My explanation may not have been as impressive as I had hoped, but it's good to know I can still see a bit of the "hunyock" youth showing in me, even now.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment