Observer

Winter Blunderland

A very strange thing happened this winter.

It got cold.

This development has come as a great shock to many people. I attribute this to the demise of the wall calendar, which, among other things, was quite useful in hiding stubborn stains on kitchen walls.

Few people have wall calendars in their kitchens anymore. We are surrounded by devices that tell us the exact date and the time, sometimes across multiple time zones. So why invest $10.99 on a wall calendar when you can’t get away from modern technologies that are constantly flashing the date and time?

Still, I’m convinced that if more people had wall calendars, they would have a much better sense of time and season. The wall calendar, with its spreadsheet display, reminded you that time was a process. We have a wall calendar in our kitchen. A glance at it reminds me that we have recently completed the month of January, it is now February, and in several weeks it will be March. These are generally considered the prime months of winter, and winter is a time for multiple layers, gloves and scarves. So thanks to our wall calendar, nobody in my house is surprised to discover that temperatures outside are not what they were just a few months ago.

I should add that our wall calendar also provides excellent cover for a tomato soup stain on the wall. I’d rather that you didn’t ask how the tomato soup wound up on the wall. I’ll simply point out that I’m a Mets’ fan.

The arrival of what the New York Times called the first real winter in years has led to great upset in my neighborhood. Some folks down the street who had been holding annual Valentine’s Day barbeques – shorts optional, but encouraged – are inconsolable because their tradition is now endangered, given that their grill has disappeared into a snow drift.

A man who had been planting seedlings in his garden precisely on February 1 for many years had to be persuaded this year to put down his pitchfork and walk away from it very slowly. The authorities were summoned, perhaps because the family next door was put off by the sight of their neighbor digging in the snow while wearing a straw hat and open-toed sandals.

I was called in, given my expertise in dealing with difficult people (I used to cover New York politics), and I asked him, gently, why he insisted on planting his crops on February 1. He eyed me as a master would an amateur. “February first is the first day of spring, according to the calendar of the ancient Celts, and it is a traditional celebration of fertility.” I chose not to point out that the ancient Celts clearly needed better calendars, perhaps one designed to cover up stains on their walls.

“That’s very interesting,” I said as I put on a second layer of mittens. “But you really aren’t all that ancient and I honestly don’t think you’re a Celt.”

“Póg mo thón,” he replied, for which I had no answer.

In any case, this persistent pattern of traditional winter continues to play havoc with more-modern customs that developed over the last decade or so. Early tryouts for a local swimming team in the outdoor pool have been postponed indefinitely while the high school hockey team takes possession of the facility. Great stocks of gin and pinot grigio are gathering dust in liquor stores. And, worst of all, I have been unable to play winter golf on the usually snowless fairways of northern New Jersey, a habit I had taken for granted for many years even though I knew it was against the laws of nature, not to mention the principles of mental health wellness.

Perhaps the most-poignant sight of the season has been the spectacle of young men, broad of shoulder but squint-eyed due to excessive staring at moving objects on computer screens, learning how to wield a show shovel. Some clearly had consulted their local chatbox about proper technique since they were performing their task as recommended by countless orthopedists, bending at the knees and taking only small bits of snow on their shovels.

This amateurish performance offended me. What is the point of shoveling snow if you can’t complain about your aching back to your spouse, children and coworkers? It’s a great conversation starter. And if past performance is any predictor of future results, such complaints can lead to gratifying indulgences: A sick day from work, rare looks of sympathy from children, and a drop of whiskey with your breakfast to dull the pain.

I couldn’t help but interrupt one of the young bucks who was talking into a device while shoveling his sidewalk near my house. “Young man,” said I, “I’m sorry to interrupt but I just heard you refer to your snow removal instrument as a spade. You’re new to this” – my smug condescension was a bit much, I fear – “but just so you know, you have a shovel in your hand, not a spade.”

The young man gave me one of those looks that people of his age reserve for the likes of oldtimers. “I was talking about a procedure for my new cat,” he replied as he resumed his shoveling, taking care to bend at the knees.

I returned to my own business, somewhat abashed. But I took comfort in knowing that the young man will likely not strain his back due to his bending at the knees and therefore he will not be eligible for whiskey with his breakfast.