Winrer- bahumbug!

Winter - bahumbug! I am so ready for it to be over. I no longer see the falling snow and think 'How pretty,' but groan inwardly at the thought of shoveling yet AGAIN. Worse though is the ice. It has been so cold this year, we've actually sprouted what I term 'ice fields'. Long, wide stretches of treacherous ice, over sidewalks and fields, that no amount of salting seems to control. Since they are across where folks walk, the turned up slush has frozen into zagged uneven peaks, making crossing difficult at best, and dangerous. A fall sends one of these frozen peaks peircing your skin. Not a lot of fun. Even the snow banks, that I will opt to climb up and walk on, are frozen solid, and at times too slick to mount. One can't help but think, if I fall and can't get back up, how long before help would arrive? In the subzero temps no one who doesn't have to goes out. I'm sure if anyone videoed my walking, my erratic steps would make me appear quite drunken.
Adding to the 'adventure' is icey winds, that bring the temperature into double negative numbers. It sends tendrils to seek out any openings to nip your skin, slicing its way through gloves, even. Putting your hands in your pockets, is NOT an option, you need them to aid your balance. Walking in the street is also not an option, because the drivers who are out, would make you a hood ornament. These are also the same lot, who gabbing on cell phones would not notice what appears to be a body sprawled on the ground.
Once I make it into town proper, it is better. Constant travel, even on sidewalks has erradicated most ice. You just need to be aware of 'black ice' patches, where the asphalt looks wet. The buildings, crowded together break most of the wind.
On the worst days, someone from the Shelter always seems to invite me in for a moments warming. While tempting, I hardly ever accept as I need to get to work on time, but on the return trip, I've accepted a time or two. It's a bit past my midway mark on the 3 mile trek, at the top of a rather steep hill. No matter how many times, I've climbed that hill, I find myself still breathing hard at the top. Especially if the wind is head on.
Now, before anyone goes to feeling sorry for me, I would like to relate the following story. Last week, when the windchill was a negative 35F, I wore 5 layers of clothing for warmth, and carried spare gloves, and socks in my bag. I am not a fan of frostbite. I bundled up so that I get called 'pequeño esquimal' - Little eskimo . I was coming off of a 8 hour shift, for which I stand the entire time without breaks. It was just too busy for any breaks, that day. I was tired, and jonesing for a smoke. Despite my layers, I was also cold. I wasn't exactly a happy camper, especially with the headon wind. Then I saw her. A tallish, thin woman with pinched features, stood next to me on the corner waiting to cross. Wearing only a zipped up fleece hoodie, and shivering. We didn't speak. I thought surely she wasn't going far dressed like that. She pushed back her hair, and I saw her hands red and chapped - not even gloves in this bitter cold. A block later we're again waiting for the cross signal. "You going far?" I venture. She looks at me, suspiciously, I think. Eyes narrowed, but perhaps that's just the wind. "Up to the Hope Chest," comes the reply. "Dang, girl - that's at least a mile and a half! Where the hell is your coat?"
"I'm ok," her jaw juts out, with determination. She's vibrating like a tuning fork with the cold.
"Bull shit," I say. "C'mere -" I step over to where a building forms an L - in this lee I take off my outer coat and strip off my heavy sweater - "Put this on." I hand her the sweater. "Might be a bit short - but it's warm." She opens her mouth to argue and I hush her. "Let me do this - I owe." She takes it hesitantly and pulls it on. It's followed by my scarf and spare gloves.
"I can't," she says. "You can and will," I reply. Tears form in her eyes. "Don't cry, they'll freeze on your cheeks," I say. "Besides, I've more."
We walked in silence to the Hope Chest, where once she was inside, I turned to leave. I'm only slightly more than halfway home. 'Hey! Your scarf!" She says draping it across my shoulders. I sense this returning is important to her, "Thanks," I reply. I refuse her returning of the sweater or gloves though - the image of her hands the knuckles looking as if they'd crack and bleed still in my head.
Someone calls, "Pequeño Esquimal! How are you?" I laugh and say hi to the large man I know only as "Tank" - reaching up for my traditional hug. I whisper in his ear to make sure this woman gets a warm coat and scarf. He gives me a quizzical look, and I pull a 20 from my pocket and wink at him. He winks back, and I leave knowing matters are in good hands. Hope Chest is a thrift store, ran by the Salvation Army. I know if she is as bad off as I think, Tank will make arrangements.
Now, I'm no saint. And I believe the above happened for a reason. To help hammer home the idea that no matter how bad you think things are, someone has it worse, and even when you think you have nothing, you have more than you thought, and always enough to share.