White Heat

 

Mom, 1949

Yesterday I saw an old man walking down the street wearing a heavy winter coat with a knit hat pulled down over his ears. Seeing that made me think about my mom. It was seventy three degrees outside. The same temperature outside as inside the house. I was wearing shorts and a tee shirt and was ready for this spurt of summer like weather. I was ready, but my body apparently is not. I was cold. Seventy three degrees and I was cold. I seriously thought about turning the heat back on, but then I'd have to listen to Dennis whine about how hot his apartment is. Mom was the same way. She was always cold. I remember when I was a kid and Mom would stand in the corner of the living room where the heat register was, letting that blessed hot air warm her legs. When she got older, no amount of heat could satisfy Mom. When I would visit her, even on a summer day, the house would be stifling and the furnace would be blasting away.

"Mom! (You had to shout) You have the thermostat set for nearly ninety degrees."

"Oh, I do? I was cold."

I would turn the furnace off and open a window. Fifteen minutes later Mom would ask, "Is it cold in here? Aren't you cold?"  No, it would usually still be well over eighty degrees in the house. Mom would sit there wearing a sweater with a blanket over her lap, pouting. Moments later she would put her electric Hoveround chair in gear and zip on over to the hallway. I could see her staring up at the thermostat, at which time I would go over and pretend to turn the heat up. But I wouldn't

That's what I was thinking of as I sat in my recliner chair wearing my shorts and tee shirt. No, I did not turn the heat on. I went and put on long pants, a thermal long sleeve shirt over my tee shirt, and a sweat shirt over that. I also turned on the little fireplace space heater for awhile.

Mom, 2018