Any Coat In A Storm

I was walking Chandler around the block the other morning, all bundled up against the forty five degree temperature, when I caught a whiff of diesel fumes. The combination of cold and the smell immediately transported me back to Chicago. I liked it. The feeling reminded me of what it was like when it would climb to such a scorching temperature on a Chicago January morning. Folks spirits would soar. Young men would be sauntering about in short sleeves, some in shorts and flip flops. Of course within a few days they'd be sick from such behavior, but it was fun to pretend for a moment that winter didn't exist. It's all a matter of perception. To my thin Florida blood forty five was bitter cold, but the thought of being out on such a morning in Chicago, in January, made me feel much better.

When Garrett and I first moved to Florida we believed we were moving to paradise. On the day we crossed over the border into Florida from Georgia we made a point of stuffing our heavy winter coats into a garbage can, sure that we were never going to need those things again. Ten months later, on Christmas Eve, the temperature in Fort Lauderdale dropped to twenty eight degrees. Christmas Day we drove up to my brothers house in Orlando where the temperature had dropped to twenty two, and snow flurries had swirled in his back yard that morning. This was paradise.

They say you can tell what year somebody moved to Florida by the style of winter clothes they wear during rare cold spells. You'll find some folks huddled in their puffy red Michael Jackson  coats. Older folks will be fending off the cold in hippie style fringe. If Garrett and I hadn't stuffed our winter wear in that garbage can twenty two years ago, I'd be walking the dog in an ugly, blue corduroy winter coat. For once something stupid I did years ago has had a positive result. I was forced to buy a new coat, a new coat that I will still be wearing twenty years from now.