Winter Originally read on the radio show Weekend America, 2005. The first sign of winter comes early, on November 1st.. That's when the city switches to alternate-side parking, in deference to the coming days of snow and the necessity of clearing the roads. The preceding six months of freewheeling parking promiscuity grind to a halt. We pull up to the curb and sit, engine still running, in panicked contemplation of the regulations. Is it that you can or can't park on the even side on even days and the odd side on odd days? And do you go by the day when you're parking, or the parking day to come? And what is today, anyway? Was yesterday the first, or is it today? No, today's the third, because Dave's daughter's birthday was the second, and that was her party the children went to yesterday. But maybe they had the party a day early, to keep it on the weekend, and her actual birthday is today, which means it's the second. In the end, we park where there's a space, and pay the ticket when it arrives. Throughout November, the days grow irregular—inexplicable school holidays, travel plans, arrangements with family and friends. The power and gas bill comes, and it's twice the previous month's; the thermostat goes down, the upstairs rooms are closed, and the lights are dimmed. Mornings I build a fire in the stove; all day it is maintained, with pokes and prods and rearrangements, and the damper is opened and closed as I hunt in vain for perfect efficiency. It's dark early, and we nervously await the first big storm; Netflix come, and Netflix go, and moisturizer is applied to our hands at regular intervals. Lists are made. Lists of gifts: what people want, and what we're willing to buy them. Lists of things to buy to make our holiday meals, and lists of whom to invite to eat them. Lists of people to get Christmas cards, and inside the cards, lists of good wishes, and lists of the people to whom they're directed. The coat pegs are heavy with coats and sweaters and hats and scarves, comically bulging three feet from the wall; our fall jackets are under there somewhere, too deeply buried to recover. We'll find them when spring comes. Winter is a bureaucracy. We created it so that life could go on as usual when nature shut down. Human beings used to shut down with it. We hunkered in smoky huts and caves, eating root vegetables and cured meats. These days we don't succumb. We can't. Our lifestyle demands that we battle winter with furnace and plow, carve a path through it to the office, the market, the church, the school. And day after day, we win. We push back the enemy. We conquer each morning anew and get on with our busy lives. Until the day the big one comes. Then, the roads are two feet deep, and the ice drags maple boughs and power lines to the ground, and the world shuts down. Everything is closed, cancelled, silent, and we accept defeat. The children stare out the windows in astonishment. We get dressed, haul the toboggan out of the cellar, and set out to enjoy our surrender. But deep down I know that in the cold and the dark, under the heavy snow, death lies. This is what the bureaucracy of winter was created to elude. We'll elude it for another year, safe in civilization, rocketing in delight down the hill as, all around us, frigid nature waits for our moment to pass. c2005 by J. Robert Lennon.