What I'm planning to do this winter maybe It turned cold and gray in Minnesota last week and snow fell, which some people talk about as being depressing, but it’s not, it’s reassuring. The talk is ritual complaint, an attempt by people living comfy lives to acquire the dignity of suffering. Genuine suffering is on its way sooner than you think. One day we’ll be hit by a winter heat wave like the one that melted half of Greenland and then our real troubles will begin. One day I’ll step off a curb and my legs will buckle and strangers will call 911 and I’ll be hauled unconscious to a crowded ER and when I awake, I won’t be able to remember the words to “Abide with me, fast falls the eventide” or “Minnesota, hats off to thee.” It’s out there, waiting to happen. Snow is nothing. I went to see my favorite musical, “Fiddler on the Roof,” Friday night and compared to Tevye the dairyman whose horse is lame and his wife sharp-tongued, his daughters rebellious, and the czar is anti-Semitic, and the show ends with the heroes getting kicked out of town, my life is a gentle glide path. I had 18 aunts, most of whom felt I could do no wrong, so I grew up with a sense of superiority, and it was in the Forties before autism had been invented or any of the other syndromes and disabilities with the three initials, back when an oddball like me was assumed to be brilliant. And by the time they discovered what my problem is, I was a success and it was too late for treatment. When winter comes along, I don’t long for white sand beaches and flamingos and palm trees. Paul Gauguin means nothing to me, I prefer snowscapes. I’m a Minnesotan. Heat makes me stupid. This has been proved over and over. I’ve gone to Key West and Santa Barbara in February and sat in a stupor as reading comprehension and critical judgment dropped to a vegetative level. I thrive when I’m bundled up against the cold and working on deadline and dealing with unreasonable antagonism, like the lady at Staples who told me that I must fill out a separate form for each of 23 identical packages I want to ship. She wanted me to fume and curse and glare and stamp my tiny foot and I refused to give her the satisfaction. I smiled, said “Thank you,” and walked away. This is the Minnesota way. Read the rest of the column >>> | 