The Barryfest Chronicles

I am always amazed when, after hearing that I grew up in Chicago, people aggressively inquire about how I was able to survive the harsh northern winters.  I realize that for someone who has never seen snow and lives in a place where a 40 degree day in January triggers a front page story in The Times-Picayune about the “Deep Freeze” and prompts all the local talking heads to issue dire warnings to all the folks in the Garden District reminding them to bring their exotic plants indoors so they don’t frost overnight, the idea of making through 12 consecutive months in an area with a seasonal climate may seem quite difficult.

But after enduring my first summer here in the Crescent City, I assure can assure you this:  Summer in New Orleans makes Winter in Chicago look like Spring in Faulconbridge.  What, exactly, do people down here think is so hard about a Chicago winter?

You want to know what I think is “hard”?  Driving around in a car that, even with the protection of a sun visor, turns into a convection oven after as little as an hour in a parking lot.  Or how about walking out your front door in the evening after a cold shower and the strategic, liberal application of Gold Bond to various parts of your body, and still sweating through your entire wardrobe before you reach your first stop of the night.  That’s “hard.”

Do you know what counts for extreme weather during Chicago winters?  An overnight blizzard that transforms your neighborhood into a breathtaking winter wonderland.  Every front lawn becomes a freaking snowman factory and even the slightest change in elevation or terrain becomes a the most glorious sled hill an 11-year old has ever seen in his life.  Plus, if Jack Frost’s timing is just right, the roadways don’t get cleared in enough time to get the buses moving and schools are closed for the day.

Even after I passed the age where historically bad weather meant a free day off, I worked as an analyst in the division of a major retailer responsible for, among other things, the winter seasonal run of shovels, windshield de-icer, and remote car starters.  The bonus of nasty weather across the nation was now huge sales, so as recently as a year ago I was still going to bed each winter night hoping for the sky to open up and the elements to unleash their fury.  How “hard” can winter be if there are whole segments of the population (namely school children and merchandise planning analysts) that would be happy to get hit with it’s best shot?

I am actually embarrassed, finding myself on the fragile Gulf Coast in the waning days of the second most destructive hurricane season in the history of man,  that there was any situation in which I prayed for the worst Mother Nature had to offer.

See, it doesn’t exactly take that much wherewithal to combat the brisk air of winter with an impressive collection of sweet argyle and merino I’m dying to break out every year.  And no extra every effort is required, on my part, to go to a restaurant, just as I would at any time, but now be treated to a menu filled an expanded selection of hearty pasta dishes, seasonal soups and red wines by the bottle.

You know what takes wherewithal?  Spending 6 months months out of every year ready to pack up all your important belongings and leave town on a few day’s notice, seeing reminders all over the city about how little you could potentially come back to on your way out, and yet not even thinking twice about returning the instant you get the “all clear.”

I used to dismiss the question “How did you handle those winters?” with a reflexive “The same way you handle these summers.”  But I now feel like that would actually be an insult to the native New Orleanians who have suffered through the oppressive heat and dealt with the fear of catastrophic destruction for one half of every year of their life.  “Making it through” cold winters seems like a wholly passive endeavor compared to the exhaustive test of mettle someone has to endure during the months (and months, and months) of summer down here.