Last Mid-West Winter

John fogged the windowpane in the kitchen with his breath then palmed a circle in its center. His hand slid across the cold glass making a squeaking noise. “Here it comes,” He sighed. And there you are.” He saw his first snowflake of the winter season fall, drifting and twisting past then disappear.

It was the final warning. Winter had arrived.

The signs had come and gone. The neighborhood kids had gone back to school a couple months ago. The yellow school buses threaded the narrow streets to pick up packs of kids, kids standing with parents and those standing alone to deposit them at the local public school.

The wind had turned from pleasantly warm towards the end of summer into breezy cold with the onset of Autumn. The last briquets had flared, dwindled, and died in the BBQ bowls. The outdoor propane stoves have been tarped and bungee corded. Gradually people packed away their shorts, except for those stalwart mid-westerners, like John, whose credo is ‘no pants above forty degrees.’ But eventually they, John included, succumbed to the cold and covered their calves as winter set in. Then out comes the sweatshirts, then the gloves and jackets.

The birds in imperfect ‘V’ shaped formations had warned with their, “Ka-Kas!” “Winter’s Coming!”

The air carried the cloying smells of burning leaves, the acrid scent of smoking chimneys and fires in backyard pits. The days had less light. By the time you got home from work, it was nearly dark. And it was still nearly dark when you got up in the morning to go to work.

In total, all signs pointed toward winterizing the house. John’s son had taken care of that along with the realtor.

The hardwood floorboards creak under his old, brown house shoes. His robe matched his house shoes and under it, he wore long-sleeved and panted blue pajamas. He stepped past boxes sealed with packing tape and labeled with large black lettering to the espresso machine.

They’d spent two thousand dollars on the artisan barista wonderworker. He worked the knobs with his gnarled blue-veined hands. Rich black coffee poured into twin shot glasses. He waited while the machine steamed and bubbled the milk in the metal container. He pumped lustrous gourmet Bavarian liquid chocolate into two coffee mugs from a jug, then added the black espresso and steamed milk. He added a shot of Baily Irish Crème. Two, one for him and one for her.

He placed the two mugs with their identical half-heart images together and scrapped back the kitchen chair.

They’d always enjoyed a mug. Except she hadn’t cared for the bitterness of the espresso and was fine with hot chocolate.

One of their favorite things to do was to go through her grandmother’s recipe box. Her grandmother had compiled nearly two hundred recipes over the years and had passed them on to Jo Ann. That was John’s wife’s name. Jo Ann Taylor, maiden name Rodriguez.

“Why do you need a recipe for a hot chocolate?” He’d said to her years ago. After trying it he never doubted the magical abilities of the contents in the small mahogany box now in transit to Tennessee. From it had been crafted many delicious meals the family had enjoyed around the kitchen table.

Should have put them on a Word document, he thought. He’d meant to do that for her as either a birthday or Christmas or even a ‘here because you’re great’ present. Might be an activity to do once settled into the new place. Give it to one of the kids. Whoever first decided to start learning to cook instead of having every meal brought to them by taxi.

He’d unpacked one of the family photos and leaned it against the kitchen wall. The one which had hung above the family mantle. The one that was from a time when they’d all been together and happy. He and his wife are side by side and their four children are around them. All smiling, all looking at the camera. All happy. The movers would repack it in the morning.

He raised his mug toward the portrait and toasted. “To our last night at home. Memories. We’ll make new ones at the new house.” Then brought the steaming mug to his lips and scalded them along with his tongue and chin. “Gah!” He ran to the tap to splash himself with cold water. He laughed once the initial searing soothed into a dull throbbing. The house, this year, had been quiet. That’s something winter amplifies. Less activity in the winter. It is a kind of hibernation.

He had wanted to move before the summer began but changed his mind. Not ready, he told his kids. They couldn’t wait to get out of the cold. They’d spent summers in the Golden, Sunshine, and Aloha states and discovered the sun still existed in the winter. John never cared to bake in the sun, but warmth is necessary. Winter kills. It gets in and clings. It’s difficult to shake. And when it gets into the joints and bones. Thermostats go up, dust blows from the vents and allergies go haywire.

He poured the drinks into the sink and then poured himself a mug of the liquor. “Careful, John. Need to have the drive cleared when the movers arrive.” He had told his son he’d like to do it himself one last time before the move. He finished his drink, turned off the lights, and went upstairs to bed.

Temperatures plunged overnight. A stark drop in warmth. The slightest line of yellow sun cut across the frozen neighborhood. Everything was smothered in white. The plow had already pathed through clearing the street and dumping a river of sparkling salt in its wake.

John shook his head at the snow-encased car across the street. It had been completely entombed with snow thrown by the plow. He dressed in the mud room covering himself from head to toe in thermal gear and then donned his Chicago Bear ski cap.

His boot crunched down through the snow. Noiseless white snowflakes flowed past him and clung to his clothing. Despite the layers of advanced technological arctic clothing, John felt the winter. He took up his shovel and began to clear the walk and driveway. Hoisting lung-straining shovels of powder snow and sending it to the side in a cascade. John paused to catch his breath.   

A couple of his neighbors showed up with shovels in hand. Nice young, kind guys with families. The plow went down one street over making a ruckus and flashing yellow. A snow thrower roared to life. They talked while clearing. John was excited to hear one of the men’s daughters begun hockey as his own daughter did decades ago.

“Shoveling is good exercise,” one of the men said. The other then reminisced about the sad case from a few years ago when their neighbor was found dead in the snow. “No one found him for 10 minutes.” They helped salt John’s driveway, walkway, and porch.

The plow came through again. Everyone waved at the driver as the vehicle bounced and screeched past. The spinning twin yellow lights atop the cab cast ugly yellow lights across the neighborhood before moving on to the next street. John thanked them all for their help, warm wishes, and memories and said to stay connected on social media.

John went back inside, stomped his boots free of snow then stripped off his gear. He showered, removing the sweet which had soaked through his clothing. He dressed, went to the kitchen, and made a mug of hot chocolate. He clicked his phone; the taxi would arrive in an hour.

The kids were right. Moving close but not too close was probably the best thing for everyone. No more stairs, no more frozen roads.

This house, like the house of his childhood, would now be the home for another family. He strolled through the memories created within the walls of their home until the taxi arrived. The driver asked him why he wanted to avoid the expressway. John told him it was where his wife’s fatal car accident was. He arrived at the airport where a plane took him to his new home. He wondered if he would miss the winters.