The Winter of My Discontent

by Gary Inbinder

Winter’s a bitch when you’re old. Not so much of a bitch here in Southern California; at least, not for the most part. I’m thinking of Chicago. I wasn’t old there. Winter could be tough when I was young, but it had its good times, too.

I’m a kid on a sled, maybe three-years old. My big sister pulls a rope, dragging the sled along a sidewalk. Everything around me is white; clean, sparkling in the sun. Clear, blue sky above. Shoveled snow piled high on both sides of me; ice and snow underneath. Metal runners make a shushing sound, leaving ruts in their wake. I’m happy.

Chicago Street in Winter by Aaron Bohrod (1939)

A factory whistle blows. I wake up. The radiator clanks, like someone banging on a pan. There’s frost on the bedroom windows. Light filtering through the frosty panes makes them sparkle, like stained glass. Mom’s frying bacon in the kitchen. I can hear it sizzle. Coffee’s percolating. It smells good. Time to get out of bed.

Got my first kiss in winter. A girl’s soft lips and snowflakes. Walked her home after band practice. We passed through the square in front of the old Town Hall. A dark, empty place. No one around. Clouds covered the moon. Light snow slanted down through yellow lamplight. We stopped beneath a tall oak tree; leafless in winter, its branches stuck out like shriveled, arthritic arms. We set down our instrument cases on a patch of frozen ground. She looked up at me and smiled. A pretty face; long, light brown hair, red lips, even, white teeth, sweet breath. I can still feel her lips, her body pressed against mine through our heavy, winter clothes.

Working downtown. Waiting for the El on an open platform. Frigid Lake Michigan winds whipping around tall buildings; the Venturi effect. Once, when I was walking along an icy sidewalk, the wind caught me and blew me half a block. Ice skating in Chicago.

Forty years in Southern California. Snowed once, but it didn’t stick. But now I’m cold. Can’t blame it on the weather. Must be old age. “Now is the winter of our discontent...”