OK, I’m just going to acknowledge the elephant in the room. It’s cold outside.
Not brisk, not a little chilly or somewhat cool. It’s cold. So, nowadays, I alternate between wearing long underwear with my normal pants or I just use the ones that are fleece-lined. On a few occasions where the temperature dipped to roughly 20 or 30 degrees below zero, I wore both. I live on the edge.
I bear no shame in doing so, nor will I try to shame those who wear shorts or flip-flops in this weather. (I saw some people doing that when I lived in Wrangell, as well.) Instead, I salute you with my thermal-gloved hand with arm firmly encased in parka material.
But I used to be a cold-weather grinch.
It’s amazing how much unspoken profanity can fill your brain when you’re waiting in single-digit temperature for a bus that’s running late. As soon as the thermometer dipped below 40, out came the long underwear, wool cap, thick gloves, and heavy-duty jacket. No snow angels, or sledding down frozen slopes for me, thanks. I would brave the outdoor climate as though I was embarking on an Arctic expedition.
Shivering over-dramatically, I dreamed of moving to a sunnier, more tropical environment, like California or my favorite fantasy, Hawaii. The dangers of hurricanes, earthquakes, wildfires, and smog seemed to pale when dreaming of bikinis, surf, sand, and an eternal summer.
Then, I moved to Fargo.
As I mentioned in my introductory column back in October of last year, this is not my first rodeo in the Northern Plains. From 2004 to 2006 I had a Fargo address, complete with cellphone and number with a North Dakota area code.
When I told friends and family of my impending move, there were questions. Usually, the questions went something like, “Fargo? Like the movie? What the heck are you moving there for? Are there even any Black people in North Dakota?”
Long story short, I was married back then, and my then wife wanted to come back to where she grew up, to be closer to family. After the big move, people whom I knew would watch the Weather Channel with an eye out for the forecast up north, and shudder in sympathy. My then mother-in-law would make light of weather forecasts by saying, “Yes, but it’s a dry cold.”
My first winter in Fargo was quite an education. I learned about wearing mufflers and scarves to help protect my face, mouth and nasal passages from the frigid air. Though I never did this (and luckily my car survived anyway), I found out it’s common practice during periods of extreme cold to plug in cars to keep the engine from freezing and cracking.
Last week, I got a little reminder about another common practice that I had forgotten about, when I had trouble getting water to come out at my kitchen sink. The lesson, as I’m sure you all already know, is one should leave the faucet of a sink by an outside wall to drip and open the cabinet underneath to keep the pipes from freezing.
I was surprised back then when I found myself acclimatizing to the change, which I thought would never happen. I imagined myself burrowing in a warm cave somewhere and not coming out until spring. But there came a day in late February when the temperature was in the mid-30s… and it felt wonderful. I was walking outside with my coat unzipped. What was once “freezing,” had now become “brisk.”
After two years in Fargo, I moved to Brooklyn Park, a suburb of the Twin Cities, for a year before I returned to the D.C. area.
One funny thing that happened was, even after I moved back east, I kept my North Dakota phone number. Most friends and family had me in their contacts with that number and it seemed like a hassle to change it, so why bother?
It’s almost like I knew I would be returning one day.
Things were fine for a while. I liked working at the newspaper in Rockville, but eventually, after moving on to other endeavors and other jobs, I realized that in order to continue in the field of journalism, I’d have to move to another part of the country. I decided I wanted an adventure, which led me to Wrangell, Alaska. After spending a couple of years there, I felt ready for another change. I wanted to continue working in newspapers, so when an opportunity arose here, it felt right.
It was as cold as I remembered. But I had forgotten about how beautiful it is out here as well. Being able to see storms coming from miles away. When the trees here in town were covered in hoarfrost a few weeks ago, I could hear in my mind Johnny Mathis singing “Winter Wonderland.”
And I finally got to see the Northern Lights back in November for the first time. I’d always hoped to, but it didn’t happen back when I lived in Fargo. It didn’t even happen when I moved to Alaska.
It’s sights like that really take one’s breath away.
Even more than the cold.
