Electric Cold

The cold was everything; in the water, carpet, furniture; in the bones of the house. Outdoors snow was stacked high. Trees cracked and popped. So too, the house. The air was still with a breeze that whispered in the dark. Eerie silence accompanied the negative temperature. CRACK! The 100-year old maple sounded its protest. Then POP went the house.

Wood contracted in the 27 degree-below-zero temp. Wind gusts brought the chill near 100-below.

With hooded parka, huge ski mitts, long-john underwear and heavy, insulated boots, I set out for the morning train. I lugged my attaché case; it contained my lunch, overnight office reading, and a few survival items. The parka had a snorkel hood, the kind that extends way to the front of the face; protecting the face from wind and cold, the hood’s opening was lined with fake fur that somehow made me feel warmer. The wool scarf wrapped around my neck and covering my mouth added comfort to breathe body-warmed air to cushion the shock to the lungs.

The route was familiar. Out the front door, down the steps, up the walk to the sidewalk, down then to the corner and the main route to the train station. It was dark. Cold. Trees creaking, popping and moaning in the depth of unimaginable cold. Over the upheaved sidewalks for a mile to the station. The pace was brisk. Matched the temp.

Once in the station, I remained for only a minute or three; at least a sense of warming, but it was stifling with all the outerwear. Outside again to balance the body temperature and wait for the train’s arrival. On time it appeared around the bend, clanging a warning bell to stay aside. The bell sounded crackled; it’s striking hammer thudding against unwilling metal. The world was oddly silent.

Commuters boarded in silence. Shuffling of booted feet, crunch of snow and salt punctuated movements up the steps, into the train. Then the sighs, huffs, and sounds of unwrapping coats, hats, scarves. Riders settled into their seats. The train silently tugged out of the station and we rode in silence toward the city.

Rail switches were lit on fire to keep mechanicals from freezing in the cold. Observations over the years taught me how the railroad provided a low oil fire to the switch beds. The flames seemed oddly cool but effectively kept the cold steel movable in the super cold weather. Our train car road through and over the flames safe from inferno. Orwellian in sight with no sound. Riders unusually mute throughout it all.

I remember the quiet of the people. Their rustled awakening to arriving at the city terminal. We regathered our warm layers of clothing and shuffled toward the train’s exits. Down the dark, cold gangway from the train into the station. Down the long steps to street level.

The cold outdoors hit with a vengeance. As cold as the walk to the train in Wheaton had been, the Chicago wind blasted the cold deep into the parka’s skin. The cold was felt and heard in one gasp.

One foot in front of the other, traffic signals were navigated, and the one and a half mile walk to campus lay before me. Down familiar sidewalks, past familiar buildings, a turn to the right here to get out of the wind for a block, then another to the left until the zig-zag route maneuvered me to my office on campus. Away from the city center just a bit, the campus was exposed to the full fury of the wind. And the cold. Concrete buildings and modernist architecture increased the cold. The revolving entrance door was slow in the cold but yielded to interior warmth. Into the elevator and up to my floor, unwrapping the layers moment by moment.

Out of the elevator and quickened steps took me to the office. I hung my parka in the closet. Peeled off the scarf and down filled ski mitts. I was where I would spend the day doing familiar things.

Later that morning I prepared myself for the homeward commute. It would be even colder because of the wind. Temps were forecasted to equal the morning commute.

This trek to work and home again was repeated for nearly 13 years. Five miles of walking and 33 miles of train travel. Four hours each day. In all kinds of weather. In later years I drove but the time remained the same. Long hours spent getting from home to work and back. Time to think and ponder my day, the tasks of career, the purpose of life.

My generation survived this. So did my Dad’s and his father’s and grandfather’s generations. So to today’s younger generation and the one coming up after that. We work and commute to and from it. The rhythm pulls us to this activity.

We survive and tell others of the effort. Few wish to listen. We need the remembrance. It is part of our history, the struggle to do ordinary things.

Retired I recall these ordeals. In the comfort of my well-heated home. I don’t have to venture out in the cold. Similar to my past, today’s weather is electric in its cold presence.

There is a snap to the air. Cold or heated, status electricity announces the frigid world just a speck outside the window.

January 30, 2019