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NEW YORK UNEASY
January in New York
When the New York City tourism board writes about New York City, the thrills of January are almost never discussed. That is because they don't exist.
In fact, the everyday experiences of January in New York City are to the concept of "thrills" what Antonin Scalia is to the concept of "justice."
Perhaps I am not give New York City full credit for its January thrills because I am experiencing this January in watertight  high-technology shoes that have treads on them that would put a logger's truck to shame. Past New York City January thrills have included the thrill of
stepping into melting ice water up to my calf in expensive working shoes, thus experiencing the following pangs of excitement: (1) the frisson of knowing that I had fully "broken in" (i.e., ruined) a
well-made stylish piece of shoe leather that I could barely afford; (2) the sheer physical feeling of deep regret registered within the cellular structure of my foot as the icy water slides past obstacles to engulf
the unprotected organ of my skin; and (3) the first recognition of the fact that I would be horribly miserable and chilled all day long because of this misstep, and would have to pretend otherwise.
Yes, that was a good New York City January thrill. Having experienced it many times, I like to think that it was drove Johnny Carson from NBC at Rockefeller Center to
Burbank, California. Here's the deal: Johnny Carson lived in a high-rise in the U.N. Plaza. That's around Forty-Ninth and First Avenue. Rockefeller Center stretches over
four city block in the Upper Forties along Sixth Avenue. It's geographically a very short commute. But even after a bad snowstorm, even the biggest star driven in his
limousine a few city blocks would have to scramble across the curb, onto the sidewalk and into the building. It is quite possible that even within this limited universe, one
would step into melted icy water that covered your shoes. And should a star experience that often enough through a long run of a hit show, that star might find it annoying
enough that if given the chance, you would move your show to Southern California where dry feet are a universal blessing.
Okay, I have outfoxed New York City on his thrill. I have obtained sensible high technology boots that I wear on these occasions. However, to other New Yorkers, I look
drab, underdressed, and odd. Choose your poison. I used to look drab and underdressed and think nothing about it. That was before I moved to New York City, an
environment which works on one's vanity like tenderizer on a steak. Without thinking, without a single thought to the rigors of the environment, I bought stylish, well-made
shoes. I thought I was really compromising in flats and low heels. What I needed was the shoe equivalent of Teflon, plus buffeting, comforting warmth.
This week, I noticed that both my boss, who is without a doubt the best and most carefully dressed man I know, and my daughter, who has a style ear so low to the
ground that the Department of Health has looked into it, both wore tan Timberlake boots with total insouciance. Timberlake boots worn by a man in his sixties in the most
conservative suit; Timberlake boots with hip-hop and electronica on the way to Bronx Science High School. How do people like this know?
Back to January thrills. There is the New Yorker's fight with the thermostat that runs for most of the winter. Unlike their American compatriots in all other parts of the country
(except perhaps Philadelphia), many, if not most New Yorkers either (1) do not have a thermostat; or (2) have a thermostat, which is either completely dysfunctional or is
connected to a heating system which is completely dysfunctional. I have the first at home and the second at work. At home, we are supplied with antique cast iron
radiators (which I have read the design magazines describe as "sculptural" which made me buy a specially designed brush with which I removed sixty-five years of the most vile
grime you have ever seen) which for sixteen consecutive winters blasted so much heat that one would think it was time for a sauna rather than time for dinner. All windows in
the apartment had to be kept open to allow for a little relief. This year, the price of home heating oil went up markedly, and we have been less cursed than in the past.
But when the temperatures dropped to unusually low levels, so did the heat. The windows are a quarter of an inch too thin for their frames, and rattle ominously when
closed. The house is a sieve for heat escape. In times like these, my daughter and I bring out a trusty rectangular metal space heater and have a glowing little artificial hearth not too far from the television.
At work, for a long time I had no thermostat at all. I had noted the utter lack of relevance between the setting on the thermostat and the ambient temperature recorded
on the thermometer. The man in charge of the building, a friendly intelligent architect, came in and sagely agreed that something was off kilter. Workers were dispatched to
my office. They took out the thermostat and left an empty hole for fourteen months. I took potluck for temperature control during that period. Now, a thermostat has been
reinstalled, and when I come in, all is well and cheerful at about seventy-five degrees. The thermostat is left alone inasmuch all is well. By afternoon, the untouched thermostat
is at seventy-five, but the accompanying thermometer indicates that it is 82 degrees Fahrenheit in the room. I have long ago taken off my sweater and even my feet are
starting to regain feeling. However, the secretaries who work in the far back rooms have opened the rear door, so when I leave my cozy subtropical office, I am exposed to
an icy blast on the way to the ladies' room. I always get indignant about that. Then I think how nerdy I'm getting.
Going home on one of these days is the worse. Not only is it cold, wet and icy; it is also dark. No cross-town bus can decently do its job without immersing its shivering
clientele in a gentle gray spray of mud; no subway stair can be entirely relied upon to be free of treachery, particularly the deeply feared black ice. The people around you are
not only dressed drably, but half of them are sick. You sense soon you will be too. It's enough to pray for an imaginary mother who would have a clean kitchen and a wonderful bowl of soup waiting for you.
At lunch we discussed the fine encompassing snow storm of the New Year's weekend. "You have to admit that it made the city look beautiful," one says.
"It used to make even the smokestacks in Pittsburgh look beautiful," says a man from Pittsburgh who knows false beauty when he sees it.
"Yes, it used to make the train yards in Kansas City look beautiful," I say, "until it all turned gray and stayed for six weeks." I had no use for slush even as a child.
Yes, I have been writing about this for eight days ... occasionally appreciating a comic moment, such as two loafer-wearing men atop a four foot snow bank, attempt to
move an upended couch with rather nice unprotected chintz upholstery. Yes ... I go on and on ... yes ... like ... January in New York. You'll never hear "January" and "New
York" in a song, unless a depressive goes off his or her medication. And even then, most creative types get Southern gigs this time of year. Tomorrow, it's cold and
blustery, down to the teens tonight, with a half inch of snow.
Your New York Uneasy Correspondent.
© 2001 by Sarah Scott
MINNESOTA FOX TALES
January 1, 2001
Well, I have been talking about dog sledding for so long I thought I better get out and do
it. The hardest part about it is getting ready, and I enlisted Jerry's aid the night before (I think he was still under the influence of the New Year's party celebration when he agreed cheerfully.)
I got the gang line and accessories attached to the sled, and tied on the Apocalypse sled bag, which has a kind of tie-dyed effect from spending too much time in the sun.
(The once bright-red canvas now kind of merges into an orange.) We decided to take the sled down to the river first, and a tie out line for the dogs. Jerry wore his
snowshoes, and I dragged the sled, until we got to the embankment, when I just pushed it over the edge, fifteen feet down a steep incline.
I left Jerry to tie the tie-out line, while I headed back for the first of the dogs. I had Revere on a leash, and Millie, who follows me like a shadow, tagging along behind.
Revere was so excited that he was all over the place, jumping up and dancing around on two feet, then off like a shot, threatening to pull me down the steep trail. I took hold of
him by the collar and we made our way in fits and starts to the bank. There I sat down on the edge of the bank, thinking to let Revere pull me down the incline, which he did,
but I hadn't planned going over the edge, breaking off several willow branches in the process. (Happily that was all that was broken.) Jerry took advantage of the situation to snap a photo of me.
The rest of the dogs were brought to the river uneventfully. I stood on the brake while Jerry hooked up the dogs-- Dandy and Dolphy in lead, Pharoah and Millie in swing, just
behind, and Revere in wheel position, closest to the sled.
Dandy had it in mind to go down river, which wasn't the plan, so Jerry grabbed the lead
dogs and walked them around toward the snowmobile trail upriver. Once the dogs got the idea, they took off like a shot.
"Watch out!" I cried, rather uselessly, as we narrowly missed mowing Jerry over with the sled-- still in his snow shoes, he was a sitting duck.
The dogs were excited and running flat out. I was concentrating on keeping the sled upright as we hit snow ridges, then overflow ice.
It was a cold day, the temperature below zero, and I was warm in two layers of polar fleece, topped with a Thinsulate one-piece jumpsuit. The weather suited the dogs fine;
no problem with overheating. They settled into a trot, and I was happy to see that all were pulling, with their tug lines tight.
The St. Louis River winds like a garter snake, and the constant turns kept the dogs
eager to see what lay ahead around the next bend. Dandy and Dolphy both seemed concerned to pick the best trail, leading around the choppy frozen ice of overflow when
possible. When we went through the ice fields, the frozen ridges hit the underside of the plastic sled and sounded like the crack of a whip, and the dogs responded, running eagerly ahead.
We were going so well, I did not want to turn around, and we followed the winding trail beyond where we had been before. I began to think about finding a branch stretched
out near the trail, so that I could tie the sled to it while I turned the dogs around. We were approaching a high bluff,  with a house perched on top, the first sign of civilization that we had seen. Of more interest to me, in the center of the frozen river were several ribbons
of open water-- rapids which would never freeze over, due to the drop in elevation and rapid water currents.
I yelled "Whoa!" and gently braked, coming to a stop near a convenient tree branch. Not
convenient enough, however, as I realized immediately. I would have to try to drag the sled sideways and hook a line around the sturdy branch. The dogs thought otherwise, and took off like a shot. I held
on momentarily, pulling the sled over, but I couldn't keep my one-handed grip-- I grabbed with both hands on to the tie line that I had in my left hand, but it flew out of my
grip, and the sled righted and the dogs started running.
I watched them running down the trail, close to the bank, and had the presence of mind
to take a picture, thinking as I did that it might be the last view I had of them. Almost immediately, however, they stopped, and stood there, looking mildly back at me.
I actually thought that out of common sense and good manners they had come to their senses and decided to wait for me, as though they were a well-trained team of draft horses.
As I walked to the back of the sled, the real explanation was revealed. By good fortune, the snow hook had fallen off the sled when I tipped it over, and it had found a spot to
wedge itself, braking and bringing the dogs to a halt.
I behaved nonchalantly, stepping on the runners, and then on the brake, while I removed
the snow hook. Then I let up the brake, and said, "OK." The dogs, now well rested, bolted ahead. I gave up any idea of turning around. We were on an adventure, and having too much fun.
Occasionally I could see tracks in the snow which led up the bank. The snow was too deep to identify the owner, but by the size and nature of them, I thought some were
likely deer, and others smaller animals. A crow flew over head and cried its warning to the forest.
We came to a Y in the river, with snow mobile tracks leading in both directions. Not
caring which branch we took, I left it to Dandy to  decide, and without hesitation she took
the right branch. I stopped now and then to give the dogs a short rest. After 10 or 15 seconds of standing, one or more of the dogs would bark and jump impatiently, usually Millie or Pharoah, and we would start
again, always at a run, settling gradually back into an easy trot.
I found another branch, determined to turn around, and this time I was close enough to tie on to it while standing on the
sled brake. I wasn't so sure about the branch, though, and let up on the brake to test it. It strained and broke and we dragged it a short distance before I could untie it. We continued on.
We passed a field, and another house, and I could see road signs and power lines alongside the river. A dog barked in the yard, but must have been fenced because it
never came close to the river. The dogs ignored it and trotted on.
Once more I found a snag along the river bank, and threw my line over it and knotted it,
and this time it held. I set the snow hook, and jumped off the sled. I ran up the line to the front and grabbed Dandy and Dolphy, praising them, "good doggies, doing a good
job!" and swung them back around downstream, pulling the team around in a wide arc to avoid a tangle.
The sled swung around too, dragging the snow hook along. I ran back to the sled, and
jumped on the runners, stood on the brake, but was too far from the snag to untie the line. I pulled the sled back a couple of feet, and was able to reach it and untie it.
We started home, retracing our path. Dandy seemed to prefer the trail we had made and followed it closely. The dogs picked up the pace, excited now when they realized we were heading toward home.
I thought I would cheer the dogs by singing, like a cowpuncher does for his "doogies." I launched into a soothing, if off-key, rendition of an old traveling song:
"Sing your way hoooome at the end of the day;
Sing your way hoooome,
Drive the troubles away...
Smile every mile for wherever you roooam,
You can lighten your load,
You can brighten your road,
If you sing your way hoooome."
The effect didn't appear to be what I'd intended; the dogs were breaking stride, making sidelong glances back at me, seemingly disapproving, and I was too embarrassed to
continue. Who would guess that dogs would be music critics.
Soon they began to tire, and at times, especially in deeper snow, I jumped off and ran
behind the sled several steps before jumping back on the runners. We stopped more frequently for rest breaks. I knew Dandy was tiring as she lapsed into a pacing, or fatigue, gait.
She did not falter, nor did any of the dogs-- they had slowed down, but all were pulling. Though it was slower, the route home seemed faster as I ticked off the landmarks-- the
open lead of water, the house on the hilltop, the Y fork in the river, and eventually, a tall virgin pine that I recognized at the north end of our property. I yodeled to get the
attention of the dogs in the dog yard. The dogs began to perk up and all were glancing toward the bank of the river toward our house. Was there someone up there? Indeed,
Muktuk, one of our Alaskan Malamutes, appeared on the trail along the river, and ran down onto the river.
She ran up to the dogs, who stopped, bunching up, and threatening to tangle, as she
greeted the team. With encouragement of the sort mushers can provide to difficult dogs, she took off down the trail, the team in pursuit. It was enough entertainment to get
them down the last stretch of trail, and back to our starting point.
Getting off the river proved easier then I expected. I unhooked Revere, Pharoah and
Millie, and pulled myself up the side of the bank, holding onto a rope that Jerry left there, leaning back, and walking upwards like a hotshot climber. Dandy and Dolphy, still in
harness, climbed up to the top of the bank, following close behind me. Pharoah had run straight for the house, and Jerry, alerted, was getting dressed to help. Within a few
minutes we had all the dogs back in their kennels and ready for dinner and a nap.
As am I!
Your faithful correspondent,
Dot
© 2001 by Rachel Scott
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