Fahrenheit 451---But What's That In Celsius?

   Well, it's about 233C, if you really wanna know....damn hot either way!
   It's coming on winter in these parts and as the temps begin to drop it's almost inevitable that we spend more time checking them---if for no other reason then to figure out what to wear to work in the morning.
   I am of the generation which grew up on Fahrenheit as a temp measurement scale and was really only familiar with Celsius (Centigrade) as it applied to physics in high school. I can remember doing the math in trying to figure out how one related to the other and thinking never gonna need this! Well, I was wrong.

In case you wanted to have a bit of an idea

   As an adult living in Canada, I then found myself dealing with our country's switch over from Fahrenheit to Celsius and a few other nasty little things such as miles to kilometers and pounds to kilos. 
   This was all to bring us in line with almost the whole rest of the world, minus the United States, stubborn as they are. In time, I got used to it. I knew that 32F and 0C were the same thing and I kind of went from there. If the weather was up in the twenties, then it was pretty nice out!
   Somehow or other, though, my weather app stuff has now converted back to Fahrenheit and this is kind of cool because I only really know what temperature it is if it's in Fahrenheit.
   Oddly enough, though, there is enough of an age gap between Doralyn and myself (almost 15 years) that if I tell her what the temp is in Fahrenheit she has no idea what I'm talking about. A couple of days ago I told her it was going to be a warm day (for this time of year) because it was going up to 56 degrees. She had no clue what that meant. And I couldn't tell her what it meant because I had no clue what it was in Celsius! (it's about 13 degrees).
 I find myself referencing the temperature reasonably often over on my running blog, Ragged Cap Runner. I do this so other people might know what I either do or don't suffer through while I'm out running. I generally will mention the temp in Celsius and then remember that I have a handful of readers in the States and I find myself needing to refer to my Celsius to Fahrenheit conversion app just to let them know exactly how much I was suffering (or enjoying myself.) 
    

Sort of what you look like after a -40C and F run....

   Okay, while I'm on the subject, I've got something very cool to tell you about. Very cool. With all the vagaries of the two systems of temperature measurement, I had reason a couple of winters ago to discover one very interesting fact---forty below in Fahrenheit is the same temperature as 40 below in Celsius. I only discovered this because I was set to run in a race wherein the temperature, with the windchill, was going to reach -40C. In an effort to describe to my Amurrican friends just how cold this was, I discovered the aforementioned fact. Now how cool is that?! Well, too freakin' cold to run in, for one thing.....

Snow

   For the fifty-second time in the fifty-two years I've lived in London, Ontario, snow has arrived. I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest that this was also the trend prior to me moving here.
   I'm tired of it.

Looking out my bedroom window this morning.

   I can clearly remember a time when a heavy snowfall got me all giddy and excited and eager to pull on the boots, scarves, snowpants, mitts and toques and get out there. There was a small hill at the side of our house back then and any appreciable snowfall created a large drift along the crest of it. I would stand before this drift in wonder at all the opportunity it offered for diving right in. There was, however, also some pristine beauty to an undefiled drift and I would always hesitate, knowing that I was about to spoil this forever. And then in I dove.
   Along the way, there were also the delights of tobogganing, skating, bumper-jumping and, when I got a little older, cross-country skiing.
   But that was then and this is now and, as an aging Canadian, I've discovered why other aging Canadians occasionally find their way down south for four months about this time of year. I don't know whether we've become more susceptible to the cold, less physically able to dig our way out, or just more psychologically weakened by this change of seasons but each successive winter just seems that much more difficult to bear.
   Saying all this seems somewhat traitorous--Canada means snow and if you hate the snow then you must hate Canada, right? Our national identity was carved out of a chunk of ice, right? Well, I still love Canada and would never think of moving away, even for just part of a year, but I just hate the thought of another winter. And winter is here now!
   Two days ago, we could all have been wearing shorts outside and we actually broke a temperature record for this time of year. Yesterday, lake-effect snowsqualls hit town, along with the accompanying dose of seasonal reality. Oh well....
   Likely, (and I know this because it always happens) once I get back into the routine of it all, find my winter clothes, get the snow tires put on and start living a wintry life, things will be fine and I'll somehow manage to make my way back through to Spring again. In the meantime, I need to go out and find my car... 

Strange Boy

   It was this past All Hallows' Eve when the Strange Boy appeared, literally plopped down in our midst, almost from out of the darkness of nowhere.
   It was the spacesuit which held him apart from all the others who'd trundled up our steep wooden steps. Some otherworldly force (his Dad, I think) had enabled him to levitate past those foreboding steps and land there in front of us.
   He had never been there before and looked about at this strange new place, our entranceway, in wonder and possibly a little bewilderment.
   When he landed among us, I was in our kitchen, cleaning up a few of the leftover dishes from dinner. Doralyn had gone to the door when this Strange Boy arrived and it was her loud, gasping ohmigod which then alerted me to the presence of something new and wonderful in our house.
  I investigated and came face-to-face with the visitor from out there, as well. I had the same reaction as Doralyn when I saw him--my jaw dropped a little and the rarefied air he'd brought along with him caused me to inhale fully and deeply.
   He looked like he might have been one and a half years old and had simply one of the most the beautiful, tiny faces we had ever encountered. This same face peered out from his velour space helmet and as he looked up at us his mouth dropped open, in wonderment, as well. He was not quite sure why he had landed here and he alternated between staring up at us and then turning to his Dad's voice coming to him from outside. His visit was brief and, insofar as he had obtained quite a bit more candy than any of the other kids had, his mission was complete. Back out onto the launching pad of our porch and then flying away into the darkness, and his Dad's arms, he went.

   I returned to the kitchen sink and the almost-completed dishes. It was here that I began to feel the effects of the Strange Boy's visit---suddenly my eyes began to well up with tears and this choking sensation took over my throat. This tiny visitor had done something unexpected in the short time he was here and I was at a bit of a loss as to exactly how this had happened.          I am not totally immune to the cuteness of young children as I encounter them but, for the most part, this entails complimenting parents on how adorable their child is, and maybe squeezing the odd chubby cheek or two. This Strange Boy was different, however. 
   I am still at a bit of a loss as to being able to adequately explain how I felt while he was here. A part of me wanted to envelop him in our world and, if had stayed with us, that might have been fine. It also could have been that he was a bit of a time traveler, that somehow he was perhaps connected to my kids when they were that age. The other possibility with this theory was that he came from the future. All I remember was that he didn't seem sure why he was there and, as much as his father thought he had just landed for the candy, I'm not so certain either how and why this Strange Boy came to visit, from out of the dark and past the stars.

O Cohen, My Cohen!

   This past week, Leonard Cohen passed away.
   I knew, of course, that this was eventually going to happen and I also knew, deep inside, that this was possibly imminent. Leonard himself, reflecting on the recent death of his longtime muse and love, Marianne Ihlen, seemed aware that he soon would be joining her. As much as I was intellectually prepared for this event, emotionally it was still a numbing moment.
   The world responded quickly, as it invariable does these days, and much was written about the poet and singer's legacy. Many tributes and much reminiscing occurred and his name has now been added to the seemingly endless list of musical icons who have passed away in this sad year.
   If you know me well, then you know how important Leonard Cohen was to me. My love for the man's writing and music grew out of the crucible of teenage hormonal angst we almost all found ourselves dealing with at that age. For me, this occurred back in the late sixties.
   I was not depressed or suicidal or filled with undue anxiety at the time but I did find myself torn in many directions and wanting desperately to be a man of the world when, in fact, I wasn't even a man of the subdivision. Finding my way with the girls was a constant state of struggle and rejection (or at least what felt like rejection) was the constant hidden jungle trap. On top of everything else, as much as I wasn't dealing with suicidal depression, someone else in my family was.
    So it was during this part of my life that I discovered Leonard Cohen.
   I was as prone to listening to the music of the day as anyone else was and there was a steady stream of Beatles, Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin and The Doors engaging me on a daily basis. I liked it all, for sure, but then I heard Cohen's "Suzanne" for the first time.

   I had never heard anything like it before. The voice, the lyrics...they were like nothing else playing on the radio those days and I was drawn to them like no other. 
   Part of the attraction was Cohen's imperfect voice. There were no histrionics employed and the monotone he effected made it seem as though he was just one of us, one of the strugglers in the world who was trying to figure things out the same way we all were. As much as anything, though,  it was the lyrics which stood out. He talked about mysticism and sexuality and Jesus, for Christ's sake, all in the same song! The intimate nature of the music made it easy to feel as though it was only directed at me, and not the surrounding, acne-riddled masses.
   As soon as I was able, I bought the album "Songs of Leonard Cohen", playing it over and over. My parents were somewhat aghast that I would so readily immerse myself in what they saw as nothing more than monotonous melancholia. I, myself, was unable to adequately explain the attraction---apart from the fact that all teenagers seem to be  drawn to what their parents aren't.
   My love of Cohen wasn't easily shared. It probably didn't help that "Suzanne", partly because of its Canadian roots,  soon became part of the high school English curriculum. We studied it, for goodness' sake. Picked it apart. This was not an exercise most of my peers particularly enjoyed and the fact that I actually doted on Cohen never scored me any points on the popularity scale.
   On the wall in my bedroom, the posterised Cohen soon appeared. On another part of the wall, mounted like a shield, hung the cracked and broken top of a plastic birdbath. This birdbath and I had had a run-in in a neighbour's backyard and its jagged edge had made my leg bleed profusely. With my neighbour's blessing, I retrieved it, detached the top, and positioned it in a place of honour above my bed. Not far from this, I had also mounted a chunk of 2x8. Attached to this piece of wood was were samples of the same wires and staples that morticians use to ensure their clients' mouths stay firmly closed after death. An undertaker had once come to my public school as part of a "careers" presentation and had demonstrated their use. Afterward, I rather boldly asked him if he had any further use for this piece of wood. He did not and it came home with me. This then was the room to which I retreated to listen to Cohen in the dark, for hours. Very little wonder that my parents feared for me.
   The feeling that I had at the time, though, was that listening to Leonard Cohen was somehow or other saving me. It was almost as if the angst and confusion were being shared and, in the sharing, dissipated. It was not actually therapy but sort of was.
   I bought all of Cohen's early albums and soon along came "Songs of Love and Hate". I still consider this to be Cohen's masterpiece. I so clearly remember lying there in the dark, with headphones on, listening to "Dress Rehearsal Rag", an epic-length song from that album. Essentially it is a

contemplation of regret and loss in which suicidal images are very prevalent. It was easy to identify with the protagonist and feel, similarly to a good movie, that you were right there living his life with him. Then, just when you think it's possible he might actually end it all, suddenly "the cameras pan, the stand in stunt man, dress rehearsal rag, it's just the dress rehearsal rag." To me, this seemed like some form of redemption, that you could be depressed and contemplating ending it all (possibly even practising) but that, in the end, it perhaps was just as acceptable to carry on.
   As an adolescent, then, I let Cohen share the dark with me. As an older man, I allowed Leonard Cohen to age right in front (and only somewhat ahead) of me--sharing his joy, bewilderment, anger, longing and passion right up to the end.  The fact that he could still get the women as he aged also couldn't help but endear him to me

                                                   I knew that he would be gone some day and wondered how this would affect me. Of course, I have been able to share him with many over the past week or so, thanks to the world we live in these days. In an age of instant gratification and lightning-swift communication, though, I was bemused to discover that Leonard Cohen had actually passed a full three days before the world found out about it. This, and that fact that he was buried in a simple pine box next to his parents, helped to add  a little  perspective to the self-deprecatory man he always was.
   A very complex and simple man.