On the occasion of this bracing chill, I offer three items for your consideration.
The first, is a poem by Robert Service entitled the Cremation of Sam McGee that may stike a cord with those of you unused to the briskness of sub-zero temperatures. The second, is a little comparison of how different folk approach the cold with a slight Minnesota bias. The third, is a short story by Jack London (To Build a Fire) that contemplates the fate of a man who had an inadequate respect for nature and the good advice of others.
We'll start with a poem that was one of my grandfather's favorites. And for those of you who hate the cold, you may find a kindrid spirt in good old Sam.
The Cremation of Sam McGee
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Continued following the fold.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell".
...
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."
A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
...
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May".
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."
...
Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . . then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm --
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Please follow this link for the rest:
http://www.poemhunter.com/...
But cold is relative, as this friendly oft-circulated comparison so aptly illustrates (Updated to reflect better judgment on cold-weather pet care.):
Cold Weather Behavior:
60 above zero: Floridians turn on the heat. Minnesotans plant gardens.
50 above zero: Californians shiver uncontrollably. People are sunbathing in Duluth.
40 above zero: Import cars won't start. Minnesotans drive with the sunroof open.
32 above zero: Distilled water freezes. The water in Bemidji gets thicker.
20 above zero: New Mexicans don long johns, parkas and wool hats & mittens. Minnesotans throw on a flannel shirt.
15 above zero: New York landlords finally turn on the heat. People in Minnesota have one last cookout before it gets cold.
Zero: People in Miami all die. Minnesotans close the windows.
10 below zero: Californians fly away to Mexico. Minnesotans dig their winter coats out of storage.
25 below zero: Hollywood disintegrates. Girl Scouts in Minnesota still selling cookies door to door.
40 below zero: Washington, D.C. finally runs out of hot air. People in Minnesota let their dogs errant husbands sleep indoors.
100 below zero: Santa Claus abandons the North Pole. Minnesotans get upset because the Mini-Van won't start.
460 below zero: ALL atomic motion stops (absolute zero on the Kelvin scale). People in Minnesota can be heard to say, "Cold 'nuff fer ya?"
500 below zero: Hell freezes over. Minnesota public schools open 2 hours late
And then there's the short story by Jack London: "To Build a Fire". I have to admit that over the years in describing my childhood days in North Dakota to some of my more gullible warm-weather friends I have appropriated the spit crackle moment and used it to illustrate the hardship of delivering the Sunday morning Fargo Forum on the northern small-town plains.
The whole short story is worth reading for all kinds of reasons.
To Build A Fire
But all this--the mysterious, far-reaching hair-line trail, the absence of sun from the sky, the tremendous cold, and the strangeness and weirdness of it all--made no impression on the man. It was not because he was long used to it. He was a newcomer! in the land, a chechaquo, and this was his first winter. The trouble with him was that he was without imagination. He was quick and alert in the things of life, but only in the things, and not in the significances. Fifty degrees below zero meant eighty-odd degrees of frost. Such fact impressed him as being cold and uncomfortable, and that was all. It did not lead him to meditate upon his frailty as a creature of temperature, and upon man's frailty in general, able only to live within certain narrow limits of heat and cold; and from there on it did not lead him to the conjectural field of immortality and man's place in the universe. Fifty degrees below zero stood for the bite of frost that hurt and that must be guarded against by the use of mittens, ear-flaps, warm moccasins, and thick socks. Fifty degrees below zero was to him just precisely fifty degrees below zero. That there should be anything more to it than that was a thought that never entered his head.
As he turned to go on, he spat speculatively. There was a sharp, explosive crackle that startled him. He spat again. And again, in the air, before it could fall to the snow, the spittle crackled. He knew that at fifty below spittle crackled on the snow, but this spittle had crackled in the air. Undoubtedly it was colder than fifty below--how much colder he did not know. But the temperature did not matter. He was bound for the old claim on the left fork of Henderson Creek, where the boys were already.
http://en.wikisource.org/...
So, I hope you are all staying warm.
If you have to go out, as my Mom would say, "bundle up or you'll change the shape of your nose".