Randy Fitzgerald

This column originally appeared in City Edition. Pick up Randy’s annual Valentine’s Day column in two weeks from one of City Edition’s 200 locations around town.

Have I told you yet about the times I used to walk a mile to school in the freezing cold when I was-wait a minute! That wasn’t when I was a kid; it was just last week when we had all that cold, cold weather.

            And actually, it wasn’t a mile. It was just a walk across a big parking lot to get to class, but when the temperature is 13, it can seem like a mile.

            I don’t do cold.  I’ve always had this thing that sends me into uncontrollable shakes and shivers and violent teeth-chattering, sometimes accompanied by primal screams at the top of my lungs, when I get too cold. I’m especially vulnerable to such an attack when I get into a cold car after a cold walk from a warm building, especially at night.  Don’t invite me to a movie in February-or if you do, at least be sure to park close to the door.

I’m not too happy to admit the shakes-and-shivers thing in print, because I know it tends to cancel out the strong masculine image I’ve been cultivating for all these years. I know you’re thinking, “What are you, Randy?  A man, or a mouse?”  Well, now that chest hair protruding from the collar of a button-down shirt has fallen into such depths of unpopularity, I have few obvious ways to re-establish my manly reputation once I have besmirched it here.

Shakes and shivers are not only unpleasant to the person undergoing them; they are also very distasteful to watch. It’s kind of like a Saint Vitus’ dance, but without the rhythm. Mine are so pronounced they have actually changed my life plans.  For instance, any thought that Barb and I ever had of retiring to Minnesota or Montana has been rendered out of the question. Boise probably has been knocked out of the running, too.

Also, thanks to shaking and shivering, I’ll never be able to practice my boxing skills, like Rocky, in a meat locker-also something that might conceivably have come up in my hopes for an unorthodox retirement.

The screaming is also a problem. A grown man running to his car screaming is often looked at askance, especially when he’s weighted down a bit with an insulated coat much like that worn by the Michelin Man (only not in that easily-soiled white) and a red- and-white New England-style cap with ear flaps.  This scenario especially does not go well in a company parking lot

As for the teeth-chattering, wwwhat cccan I sssay? It has been known to reach a volume and intensity somewhat like Lionel Hampton playing the spoons.  My ex-brother-law used to say I sounded like I was desperately trying to tap out Morse code.  I was not sorry when divorce took him.

The only good thing about my “weakness” is that Barb’s response to it has always been heartfelt bear hugs-a great wrapping of arms around me, cheek-to-cheek comfort (being careful, of course, to keep the earlobes away from the uncontrolled hammering of the teeth), hot breathe on cold neck, gradual submission of screams.

I don’t do cold.  The coldest I’ve been for the longest time was during a long stay Barb and I had once near Swansea in Wales. The cottage we were borrowing was heated (living room only) with a “coal fire,” and it was hard to get it started and hard to keep it going.  The bedroom had no heat at all, just what wafted down the hall from the parlor. It was so cold in the bedroom that we slept both on top of and beneath electric blankets. That way we could be halfway cozy, even if the image of grilled cheese sandwiches kept coming to mind.

In preparation for the last week’s Big Chill, Barb and I had to go up the road to our little farmhouse and winterize it a little.  You may recall that we put new plumbing in the bath and kitchen last spring: what we did not do was put any heat in the house.  Naturally, it occurred to us that predicted temperatures of below zero in the Charlottesville area might not bode well for our new pipes. 

So we carried up there two little electric heaters, put one in the kitchen and one in the bath, set them to the lowest setting, and then got out of the way of the long line of mice who were waiting at the back door as we left, hoping to find a way into a warm home for the rest of winter.

I noticed that they were all shaking and shivering, and I think I even heard their little screams as we drove away.