Chinook
by George Hosier II  - February 27, 2008

Frosty Reception

I’ve written previously about my good friend, Jack Frost. What a guy! Whenever we meet, I greet him with open arms and a broad smile of welcome! Well, OK—so maybe I welcome him with fists squinched into my armpits and a face contorted by an icicle-framed grimace. That’s beside the point. I assure you that my enthusiasm at meeting my old buddy Jack Frost will never abate.

One of the reasons I like him so much is his ability to effortlessly create a hyper-macho persona for his exclusive circle of friends…like me. The very sight of a man who appears nonchalant and competent in the arctic creates a certain mystique that cannot be reproduced in any other setting. I remember when I first saw the grainy sepia-toned photos of Robert Peary on his 1909 expedition to the North Pole. I was awed by the explorer’s leathery skin; the frost encasing his beard and fur parka ruff; the eyes squinting into a flurry of horizontally driven ice pellets toward some far-off destination. It seemed to me that I was viewing the blessed visage of one of the bravest and most heroic of mortals.

Of course, I now know that Peary’s awe-inspiring image of hardihood and raw testosterone was merely a cleverly staged illusion crafted by the master hero-maker, Jack Frost himself. Since then, I myself have been the recipient of such misdirected worship. I have seen people’s eyes expand and heard their sharp intake of breath as I strode nobly inside after a session in Jack Frost’s makeup studio. Fortunately, my worshippers could not guess how far from awesome I actually felt at that moment.

Truth was, the moisture had been expertly freeze-dried from my exposed flesh, leaving my epidermis with the rustic texture of antique leather, and the sensation of millions of ice worms participating in a meat gnawing contest just under my skin. Somewhere inside the gorgeous sparkling wreath of hoarfrost that framed my grizzled face, my nose hairs were frozen to my parka hood ruff and my tongue was stuck to its zipper. The resulting cacophony of pain and hypothermic shock made me squint as if I were gazing heroically toward some far-off destination. I don’t know how to adequately express my gratitude to Jack Frost for elevating me in the eyes of my peers in this manner.

I feel overwhelmed with honor to have been introduced to Jack Frost in the first place. I pity the vast majority of people who have never even met the guy. When I think of the poor deprived residents of meteorologically challenged locales such as Hawaii, Florida, Fiji and Jamaica, I nearly lose my composure! How can they cope with an interminable lifetime of bathing suits and suntan oil, air conditioners and swimming pools, palm trees and surf boards? Why, it nearly beggars the imagination that human beings could survive under such harsh conditions, let alone attempt to engender any sort of respect or admiration from their fellow sufferers! I suppose their very sacrifice stands as a testimony to the indomitability of the human spirit.

I do, however, daily struggle with an acute sense of guilt that I am allowed to so casually live in a place where I do not need to stay in shape to appear macho. In fact, while surfer dudes feel driven to achieve peer acceptance by enduring hours of muscle rending agony at the gym or by charbroiling in a tanning booth, I can lounge on my sofa, watching McGyver re-runs and ingesting cases of twinkies. I have no use for washboard abs, chiseled pecs and bronzed skin. You see, the surfer dudes’ problem is that they have to wear Speedo thongs 78% if the time, while I can conceal my pasty skin and expanding waistline 80% of the year beneath an amorphous parka, impeccably tailored to fit a pregnant snowman…er snow woman. In fact, the rounder and puffier I look in public, the higher I shoot up in my admirers’ swoon-o-meter.

Anyway, I digress. To my utmost delight, I was privileged to spend a lot of time with Jack Frost recently. Specifically during the first full week of February, 2008. Boy, what a blast that was! He hosted a lavish cold snap of record proportions and I received a personal invitation to attend. I shiver with joy at the memory. It was truly a gala event. Such pageantry--costumes, dancing and speechmaking you have never seen...er...unless, of course, you attended the function also. For those who were not privileged to attend, permit me to recount a synopsis of the activities.

Let’s talk about the costumes first. A couple of Deltans were spotted in attendance dressed in a perky new creation from Carhartt. The focal point of the ensemble was a retro bib overall in 12 oz. cotton duck. The understated brown and oil stain print was juxtaposed by a quilted polyester lining in vivid red, visible where the cuffs were tastefully unzipped to unveil a sexy pair of bunny boots. Every seam was stress point riveted and triple-stitched so precisely that it would have seemed austere had it not been for the duct tape accents and frayed hammer loops that provided a tasteful textural relief. A matching coat with rib knit storm cuffs and corduroy collar displayed a split back and pleated elbows. The outfit was completed by a pair of lined leather mittens and huge fuzzy knit wool beanie headpiece--a droll touch which muted the utilitarian theme.

One of the most accomplished outfits was worn by an unknown model who enthusiastically waved at me from where she was posing beside a small car artistically canted into the ditch near the intersection of Nistler and Mil-Tan. She modeled a modified schoolgirl dress, its skirt and puffed sleeves in glistening emerald green chiffon and its flat collar done in white against a smoke-gray bodice. Down the side flowed a panel of blood-red chiffon. Draping her shoulders was a shearling bolo (more of a stole, really) that flapped in the -50o air from the vigor of the model’s waving, creating a very cool mood. Overall it could have been a mesmerizing effect. However the design felt unresolved by the fact that the model’s bare legs disappeared into the snow leaving this reviewer with the dilemma of guessing what sort of footwear may have completed the collection. Nevertheless, it would have been boorish to quibble over such a minor detail in an otherwise brilliant design. Supportively, I cheered and waved as I drove past.

The strongest element at the event were the coats and jackets. Furs and quilted down were in vogue as were wool and heavy knits. A popular look seemed to be thick, bulky textures layered over polypropylene, Thermax or long johns. The composition of color and texture in each outfit was as different as it was puffy. For color there was grey, blue, pistachio, teal and melon. In footwear, Sorels, Mukluks, and Finnish felt boots unified a creative theme of body heat conservation. The upshot was a collection that, with a few bold exceptions, felt cozy and imaginatively insulated.

Now a bit about the dancing. At most formal affairs, there are allotted intervals during which guests are expected to move onto the dance floor and engage in an obligatory dance of varying degrees of stiffness. Not so at one of Jack Frost’s balls. Everybody dances there. You can’t help it. Your entire body is in constant motion. Involuntarily, your feet stomp, your fingers flex, hands move to ears and nose in an endless ballet of chafing, rubbing, slapping exuberance. Under it all can be felt the ceaseless motion of skin and muscles as they shudder and shiver in time to the music of a silent orchestra.

Yet it is above our heads that most of the dancing occurs. Vapor from a thousand chimneys spiral upwards. Exhaust eddies gyrate from the idling vehicles in every parking lot. Most spectacular of all are the moves of acclaimed Dance Master, Aurora Borealis, as she entertains the entire party with a breathtaking performance of choreographed incandescence. We watch speechless and humbled as heaven’s curtain lifts for Aurora’s grand entrance. Suddenly she appears with a shimmering chassé! Then she executes a glittering demi-plié and springs into a flawless entrechat troi of living light. An emerald pirouette, a ruby glissade, a lapis lazuli pas jeté and as suddenly as she came, she is gone, leaving us gasping and stunned in our shivering mortification. We would give her a standing ovation, but we can’t feel our fingers.

Finally, I must not forget to mention the speechmaking, for truly this was the most impressive demonstration of all. Shy, backwards, mousy types who would normally break out in a cold sweat and vomit at the very thought of making a speech were transformed into impassioned orators under Jack Frost’s influence. Although their subject matter was as diverse as their language was colorful, the soap box topics included the following: (1) Worthless, good for nothing fan belts that choose to break and fall off on the coldest day of the year, (2) Crappy vehicles that won’t start, (3) Dadgum furnaces that go on the blink when you need them most, (3) Cottonpickin’ sewer and water pipes that freeze solid, for crying out loud, (4) Stinking boots that cost a fortune and won’t even keep your doggone toes warm, and (5) Idiot selves that must have been smoking something when I got the insane idea to accept a job in this uninhabitable ice box.

Truly it was a memorable week. I’m kind of glad it’s over, though. By the weekend, nobody was worshipping me anymore, I was fantasizing about smearing suntan lotion on myself under a palm tree while wearing a Speedo, I was hoarse from all the speeches I had made, and I was organizing a lynch mob to track down Jack Frost. He has a tendency to wear out his welcome.
 

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