I never thought I'd be so happy as to just feel pavement directly under my feet. Ice has been keeping us apart—me and pavement. And after last week's big melt, the soles of my shoes and the cold concrete are enjoying a beautiful reunion. They get along quite well. I remembered this last week in Minnesota, where the snow removal team on the campus of Carleton College gets an A+++. Though Minnesota is a cold and snowy place, pedestrians there rarely have to deal with ice as an intermediary for very long. It makes for a totally different winter experience. That is, until one tries to walk down the hill on First Street, past Love House and Crack House.* Nothing has changed there in the last ten years, as the ice on the sidewalk makes for a treacherous ascent or descent. You're better off walking over to Second Street to get to Blue Mondays.
Getting out of the cab back in Chicago, both the cabbie and I nearly took a spill on some black ice on the sidewalk. But two days later the sun did us all a favor. I suppose this is the blessing of winter, to make us appreciate these little relationships that we take for granted in warmer weather. Now, each day my rubber hits the concrete, I will try to say, "Hello, my friend, nice to see you again."
*Update for ex-Northfielders: The St. Olaf German professor/slumlord that owns our beloved Love House and Crack House has apparently given up the battle of the names. After objecting in the mid-90s to the fact that the houses were commonly referred to by names that he thought to be evocative of a brothel and a drug den, he posted signs on the houses with new official names—those of a couple legendary German professors from St. Olaf. I was delighted to see that these have been replaced with prominent LOVE HOUSE and CRACK HOUSE signs. It's like the song from the Fantasticks: "Why did the kids pour jam on the cat?/Raspberry jam all over the cat?/Why should the kids do something like that,/When all that we said was no?"
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