Editorial
Front Page - Friday, February 5, 2010
Are We There Yet?
Cabin fever
Jay Edwards
Well, we finally got our snowfall – sort of. Kathy and I live on a hill, which is a good place to be when you’re talking about heavy rains, but a challenge when said rain turns hard. Oh, not like the hard rain Dylan referred to, with his poet dying in the gutter, but a challenge nonetheless.
I looked out my front door on Saturday morning and everything was white, even the streets, which were covered with red-faced kids and their sleds. Icy hills are a southern kid’s dream, and that early layer of sleet on Friday had made for ideal conditions.
I grabbed my camera to capture some of them as they sped down the slick surface. My neighbor next door was on her front porch and she yelled that it sure looked like fun, and didn’t I wish I had a sled. I had to agree, but yelled back that I was too old (which I don’t really believe but I said it anyway). In fact, she had given me the idea that I should join them, thinking there must be an old sled hidden beneath the cobwebs in our basement, one left behind from when our kids were young (and before I was too old).
I told Kathy my great idea and she said, “You’re too old.” Sadly, when she said it, it sounded sincere. So, I sulked back to the couch, and books, and fireplace, and chili. Growing old isn’t so bad.
That first sleet and snowstorm of the new decade had begun, as usual, with great expectations, and the five days leading up to the big event were a boon for local news stations and meteorologists. Notably missing, however, was the dean of forecasters, Ned Perme. Sorry, I don’t have a clue as to his whereabouts; somewhere warm, I’ll wager.
Barry Brandt was an able reliever for Ned. Some consider him too Opieish, but I like Barry, have ever since the time he was covering tornados years ago and wrote the words “My parents’ house” on his map.
Kathy and I were stranded from Friday around noon until about the same time on Sunday. That’s when she informed me that she had to get out.
“Of the marriage?” I asked.
“No dummy, the house.”
“Oh,” I said, relieved.
I asked if she had cabin fever.
“Yes, I think I do. What does it mean?”
I looked it up on Wikipedia and read it to her – “Cabin fever is an idiomatic term for a claustrophobic reaction that takes place when a person or group is isolated and/or shut in, in a small space, with nothing to do, for an extended period (as in a simple country vacation cottage during a long rain or snow). Symptoms include restlessness, irritability, forgetfulness, laughter, excessive sleeping, distrust of anyone they are with and an urge to go outside even in the (less miserable) rain, snow or dark.”
“THAT’S IT,” she screamed at me.
“Which part?”
“All of it,” she said, and walked out the door.
I wondered if I would ever see her again, and I began to fear inanimate objects, like our washer and dryer.
Our terrier, Gus, stared up at me quizzically, making me hope dogs couldn’t get cabin fever. I didn’t like the way he was looking at me, and began to distrust him.
Since Kathy was gone I decided to crank up the volume on my stereo, in an attempt to blast any cabin fever remnants from the premises.
Soon, I was rocking to CCR and The Stones. Gus joined in, loudly barking to “Green River,” as he ran around the den in circles; confirming my earlier fears that he had indeed gone mad.
We finished that segment of the party and I checked the TV Guide. (Actually, I scrolled the menu of my Samsung. Do they even make TV Guide anymore?)
I looked outside and most of the ice that had been such a source of joy from the day before had melted, causing the neighborhood kids to likely return to their world of digital entertainment. It made me a little sad and I sat down dejectedly.
My hand slid down under the cushion and I felt something hard and rough. I pulled it out and saw the shape of a dog bone – one of Gus’ treats. He was looking up at me with concern. I sent my hand back into the cushion and touched another treat. Gus whined. Then I pulled out a piece of an old steak bone and finally part of his rawhide chew toy.
It was obvious. Gus did have cabin fever and was hoarding food in case we never got out. We stared at each other with more distrust. There was but one thing to do.
I turned the music up
louder.
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