On the news, the weather forecaster shivered between his teeth, “This wasss the coldest Decemberrr 7 in hissst’ry.” Apparently the heat was out at the station, as it was for many in the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex.
Our high on Saturday, December 7th, was 26 degrees Fahrenheit (-3.3 Celsius), but that doesn’t tell the whole story. We crawled into our ice-block cave Thursday night, December 6th; and, as a couple, we did not emerge until Sunday morning, December 8th, when the temperature hit 33 F (0.6 C), slightly above the frozen mark for the first time in three days. Admittedly, a couple of times I coated up and tried to make it to the mail box, but the ice kept me back.
Dallas is noted for its ice storms, and this one was a doozy.
I knew frosted trouble had arrived when the new bulbs I’d hung outside strangely beckoned and glistened in glazed fashion.
Growing icicles dangled above the running trail of the Katy.
I watched in the cloudy diurnal phase as the crystal clear beards lengthened.
I searched between the gleaming sheathes of solid Siberian aqua pura for the sounds of humanity crunching their way over the ice-coated lane below.
I peaked forlornly through the guarded gates of Jack Frost’s kingdom.
When I ventured out to test the climatic elements, I found waiting for my step a sleek and stealthy stretch of black ice.
My recollection drifted back to a cold Iowa night driving home from high school. Happy in my parents’ car, radio blaring Beatles and Stones, I hit the black ice, spun and headed for the ditch. Steering madly to regain the roadway, I glided bumpily along the side of the ditch, the underside of the car rubbing and pounding against the frosted and frozen plants and bushes. Popping up and over the edge of the road, I flew and landed onto a stretch where the surface was dry and trustworthy. Agitated and anxious, I slowly and carefully negotiated the back lanes to our familial dwelling where I parked and quietly snuck to bed. The next day at breakfast, my head sheepishly bent to the cereal bowl, avoiding eye contact, Dad wondered aloud, with hints of humor and concern in his voice, how so many sticks and leaves could have attached themselves to the scratched and dented undercarriage of the car?
Honesty is the best policy, and ever since I have avoided ice on drives and walks. I have, from experience, found it safer to turn and traverse the true track and avoid the black ice of destiny and doom. Actually, it wasn’t that bad, but I wasn’t stepping on that ice. The mail could wait. The better part of valor is sometimes to turn tail and seek the warm wreathed door of home.
All things melt in their time; and a cave vacation, even if forced, isn’t that bad — especially when there’s plenty of food in the pantry. It won’t last forever. You know what they say, “If you don’t like the weather in Texas, just wait a while.”
Enjoy the season, while it lasts,
Grandpa Jim