Everyone knows what they're supposed to pack for winter emergencies: gravel for traction, flares to signal help, granola bars for sustenance, hand warmers to fend off finger loss, lightweight blankets and so on. And that's just for the kid's walk to the bus stop.
Unless it's cold and school's canceled. This is when I tell my daughter about her ancestor who spent a night in a cow.
But back up a moment. When cold like this strikes, you hear the old-timers tell tales of hardy youth of yore who went to school during total whiteouts, pulling themselves along a rope hand over hand, faithful St. Bernards with small casks of brandy hanging from their collars waiting to revive the weak who fell.
Why, I remember Dad slippin' a flask of Sno-Shoe Grog in my pocket before I went off, and slapping my face hard twice just to get the blood goin'. We got cold, we'd set ourselves on fire. But parents today are all like, "Oh, months of skin grafts will interfere with little Buffy's soccer practice." Raising a generation of cream puffs, that's what they're doing.
Bah. I remember nothing of the sort. When it was cold, I was bundled into a stiff, rust-colored snowsuit made of some miracle fabric that went skrrr skirrr skirrr when you walked and had some artificial fur whose sole purpose was to get wet when the snow melted and stink. Getting back into that thing to stagger home was like climbing into a spacesuit lined with used bar rags. The gloves were made of the same material; trying to handle anything was like doing card tricks while wearing oven mitts. That I remember.
Don't remember harsh cold like this? But it could be worse. Any night you don't have to sleep in a cow, you're doing fine. Let me explain.
In the early days of North Dakota (pop. 37) they didn't have long-range forecasts, except for the Farmers' Almanac, which came out once a year in printed form. Also known as a "text alert." I suppose some old pioneers, wise to the ways of the plains, would taste the first few flakes and muse, "Two feet by morning, three feet by noon," based on the weight and the taste. But when the snow came in, there was little you could do but huddle in the house and hope you didn't have to burn the furniture.
We look back on these people with amazement: The fortitude! The courage! My ancestor was from the chilly part of Europe, so North Dakota winters weren't entirely surprising. Still, it's like coming from a land where it rained ax handles and moving to a place where it rained sledgehammers.